


Bring On the Rain

by BreTheWriter



Series: Hold Me Like You'll Never Let Me Go [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce finally decides to take Tony up on his offer to stay with him at the Malibu mansion. But he's not quite prepared for what he finds when he gets there...and neither is the other guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring On the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purpleyedemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyedemon/gifts), [SilverTempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverTempest/gifts).



> I intended to have this one done a lot sooner, but Camp NaNoWriMo got in the way. Also, I admit I had no idea where it was going when I started. (Then I couldn't figure out where to _stop._ ) I like where it turned out, though, and I hope you do, too.

            He probably could have caught a cab, if he’d really wanted to. But Bruce had chosen to walk the nearly thirty miles from the airport to his destination. Which was crazy, or at least most people would have considered it so—especially since it was raining. The man in the drugstore seven miles from the airport, who’d sold Bruce a newspaper, had mentioned that they’d seen a lot more rain in the last couple of weeks than was usual for southern California this time of year. Bruce had smiled politely, unfolded the _Los Angeles Times_ over his head, and headed on his way.

            Bruce had spent most of the last two years, save for a flying visit to New York to ring in 2013, in a place where the primary method of transportation was the human foot. He was used to walking long distances, actually enjoyed it even if he hadn’t often left his little hut-cum-laboratory except to walk to the village market or to visit someone who needed a doctor. His stamina enabled him to keep a steady pace, maintaining the three miles per hour walking pace of the average human for a lot longer than the average human actually could.

            The other guy helped a little, he had to admit.

            His plane, an unobtrusive 737 belonging to one of the airlines that serviced both New Delhi and California, had touched down at 8:37 A.M., Pacific Standard Time. The detour into the drugstore had cost him fifteen minutes; a stop for lunch had cost him a further thirty, and he’d wasted ten more minutes explaining to a concerned police officer and his slightly suspicious partner that he was not homeless, was not hitchhiking, had a destination in mind, and did not need a ride there. He checked his wristwatch as he reached the head of the drive that marked the last leg of his journey. 5:30 P.M. on the nose.

            Shrugging his bag further up his shoulder, Bruce re-folded the now incredibly soggy newspaper to afford him a little protection against the resurgence of rain, then strode down the driveway. He didn’t run. Running tended to agitate the other guy, tended to make him think he was being chased by scary men with big guns. (Bruce forced himself not to think of the narrow squeak he’d had getting out of the village.) Instead, he walked at a sedate pace towards the house.

            It was the first time he’d seen this particular building. It looked nice enough. An awful lot of glass walls on the main floor, a good amount of windows on the upper floors, a flat roof that you could probably land a helicopter on. Although it was still relatively early in the evening, the raging storm had made everything dark outside, but the entire first floor was ablaze with light. It looked…cozy.

            A bolt of lightning seared the sky to Bruce’s left, over the ocean, followed by a loud crack of thunder. Bruce flinched and felt the overwhelming desire to change.

            “Easy, big guy,” he whispered to himself. “We’re almost there.”

            With a visible effort, he pulled himself together and made it the last couple hundred yards to the door. There wasn’t a doorbell, but he raised his hand and knocked as loudly as he could. After a few moments, during which the rain got harder and he started to wonder if he should knock again, the door opened.

            “Hi,” Bruce said, trying to grin. “That offer of a place to stay still good?”

            “Christ, Banner, get in here.” Stark reached out and yanked Bruce into the house by the arm, shutting the door behind him. He peered at him closely. “I didn’t see a cab coming. J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t report one, either.”

            Bruce shrugged, acutely aware of the fact that he was dripping all over the floor. “I, ah, I walked.”

            Stark’s eyes widened. “You _idiot._ You should have told me you were coming, I’d have picked you up or sent the car or something.”

            “Didn’t want to be a bother,” Bruce said. He realized how dumb that was as soon as it was out of his mouth. It was even _more_ of a bother just turning up unannounced, out of the blue.

            “You’re not a bother, man.” Stark flashed him a grin. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room. You can take a shower and change if you want, then come have something to eat. At least a cup of coffee.”

            Bruce raised his eyebrows as he followed Stark, his shoes squelching with every step. “Wait, ‘my room’? Thought you didn’t know I was coming.”

            Stark shrugged. “I didn’t. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a room ready for you.”

            “I’m…confused.”

            “I’ll explain later.”

            They reached the third floor. Stark led him to a room off to one side, pushed it open. “Here you go,” he said. “Bathroom’s through that door there. Make yourself at home. Whenever you’re ready, just head on down to the kitchen.” He threw Bruce a grin, then left.

            Bruce decided that questions could wait. He’d given up trying to understand Tony Stark. The man was brash, blunt, outspoken, judgmental, arrogant, and extroverted, with a biting sense of humor. But for all that, Bruce had discovered him to be a loyal friend and a brave man. Most of his attitude was to cover up surprisingly low self-esteem, cultivated from a childhood of failing to capture his father’s attention and an adulthood of capturing all the _wrong_ sorts of attention. When he’d called Bruce nearly three weeks before, he hadn’t been able to disguise the palpable relief in his voice at finding Bruce alive and unhurt, and his offer to come stay had clearly been genuine. If there was a motive behind it, Bruce couldn’t come up with one.

            Gratefully, he peeled off his wet clothes, dropping them with a splat onto the bathroom floor, and took a hot shower. Warmer and drier, he changed into a purple button-up shirt and a pair of black pants, ran a comb through his hair, draped the clothes over the curtain rod, and ventured out into the house proper.

            It was tastefully decorated, which surprised Bruce when he thought of it. _Stark_ and _tasteful_ were not usually something one thought of in the same sentence. He would have expected Stark’s home to be gaudy and extravagant, flaunting his wealth and status, or else ultra-modern, with lots of glass and chrome and stainless steel. But this hallway, at least, was subdued. The walls were painted a light tan, with a crown and kick molding in some sort of dark wood; the floors were carpeted in a rich, dark red with a gold border inset about two inches from the edge. The doors were the same color as the molding; there were four of them, counting Bruce’s. Two were firmly shut, but one was slightly ajar. Bruce assumed that one was Stark’s. There was a window at either end of the hallway, with curtains the same color as the rug, drawn closed. Other than that, the walls were bare.

            Quietly—Bruce had always been light on his feet—he started descending the steps. They were carpeted in the same way as the hallway, and the walls enclosing them were painted the same way, absolutely bare of other decoration. It was a little puzzling; he would have expected at least _some_ pictures, even if they were just of Stark, just for appearances’ sake. But the bare walls were…disconcerting.

            The second floor hallway was lighter than the third; the walls were the same color, but the molding was light wood, the doors painted white with brass handles, and there were more of them. Bruce was momentarily tempted to explore, but he resisted. He wasn’t sure how long Stark would let him stay, but he was sure that he’d have a chance to look around later.

            The stairs between the second floor and the first were open, a curved flying staircase made of glass and steel leading to the foyer where Bruce had come in. He noticed that somebody had mopped up the puddles he’d made, which was good; he wouldn’t have wanted to slip and fall. That would have been the quickest way to set off the other guy, and Bruce knew how recently this building had been constructed, even if he’d dozed off while Stark was telling him about his encounter with the Mandarin in detail.

            He smelled coffee brewing and followed his nose. Once he reached the kitchen, he stopped dead. Stark was there, all right, his hands cradled around a red-and-gold mug, but there was someone else, too, a stocky, muscular blond man who sat cross-legged on the counter with a coffee mug of his own. Bruce had only met Clint Barton once, but he recognized him. He just hadn’t realized he was visiting Stark, too.

            Stark noticed him and grinned. “Feeling better? Help yourself.” He waved at the coffee pot and a tier of cups.

            “Thanks.” Bruce unhooked a mug at random—a dark blue one with a drawing of an atom in silver—and stuck it under the coffee pot. “Barton, good to see you again,” he added, not entirely untruthfully.

            “Likewise,” Barton said with a smile. There was something about him, though, that drew Bruce’s attention. Something about the eyes…the smile didn’t quite reach them. Studying him for a minute, Bruce saw a sadness, a weariness, that hadn’t even been there after he’d been possessed by Loki. Something had happened to him in the two years since Bruce had seen him last. Maybe it was just the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D.—after all, he’d worked for them.

            Stark rolled his shoulders. “This is a soup kind of night. Do either of you feel like soup? I can’t cook worth a damn, but I can open cans and…sort of keep them from burning. Tomato soup.”

            “Can’t have tomato soup without grilled cheese,” Barton said, setting down his coffee cup. “I’ll make it. It’s my turn, anyway…Banner, you eating?”

            “Yeah, thanks,” Bruce said, a little startled.

            Barton reached into a cabinet and pulled out a couple cans. Bruce inhaled the aroma of the coffee, then took a sip. “God, that’s good,” he breathed.

            “Been a while, huh?” Stark smirked.

            “I’ve been in a remote village,” Bruce pointed out. “If it didn’t grow locally, it was hellishly expensive. I had a little cache of coffee, but I could only have it, like, once a week without running out.”

            “Is that why you left? You ran out of coffee?”

            Bruce raised an eyebrow. “When did you start getting subtle?”

            “Subtle? Me?” Stark actually looked offended.

            “When we met, you struck me as the kind of guy who would have asked outright why I left, not waited to come at it through a back door.”

            “Yeah, well…” Stark shrugged. “Given the choice between directness and sarcasm, I’ll pick sarcasm every time.”

            Bruce laughed. It was one of the things he’d liked about Stark from the moment they met—he’d immediately put both Bruce and the other guy at ease, and he could make him laugh. “I’d imagine it tends to get more answers, too.”

            “Usually,” Stark said dryly. “Although in this case, you’re avoiding my question pretty well.”

            “Yeah, well…” Bruce hesitated. “Mostly it’s because I don’t really understand it myself. I’m thinking it has to do with what you were telling me, about S.H.I.E.L.D. falling apart and Fury being dead, but…I’m guessing there’s more to that story.” They’d been on a bad connection at the time, and Stark had still been trying to get hold of the rest of the Avengers, so they hadn’t been able to chat very long. All Bruce had been able to gather was that something had happened, S.H.I.E.L.D. itself had been compromised, and Fury had been killed.

            Stark sighed, all levity leaving his face. “Yeah, okay, you deserve the details, since you were on their hit list,” he muttered.

            “Whose? S.H.I.E.L.D.’s?” Bruce was taken aback.

            “No, no,” Stark said quickly. “Okay, here’s the Reader’s Digest version. You’ve heard of HYDRA?”

            “Yeah, I think so,” Bruce replied. “Terror organization from the forties, right?”

            “Something like that, yeah. Most people assumed they’d been destroyed after World War II. Well…turns out they weren’t. When S.H.I.E.L.D. started up, they ‘recruited’ a few of HYDRA’s former top scientists to develop tech, and they were…sleeping. Three weeks ago, they came out of hiding, big time. There were these helicarriers that S.H.I.E.L.D. had developed to police threats—take ‘em out before they became an issue—well, HYDRA altered the programming to take out people _they_ considered threats.” Stark ran a hand through his hair. “You. Me. Cap. Most of us, actually. Cap and Romanoff and Hill—and a new guy, Sam Wilson—took out the helicarriers before they were fully active, but…in the process, a lot of good men and women lost their lives. Including Nick Fury.”

            Bruce nodded slowly. It made as much sense as anything else he’d heard in recent months. “So S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone.”

            “Not completely,” Stark replied. “There is a small but dedicated team that’s rebuilding it from the ground up. We’re helping. Sort of.”

            “I’d offer, but…not sure I’ve got any skills they need.” Bruce tried to smile.

            Stark hesitated, glancing upwards. “Well…maybe. How’s your medical knowledge?”

            Bruce frowned. “Pretty good, why?”

            “Well, it’s…” Stark rubbed his head again. “The thing is…that team I mentioned? They…they had a HYDRA sleeper agent working for them. He betrayed them and tried to kill two of the members of the team—a pair of scientists, Fitz and Simmons. They’re just kids, really. This agent—Ward—he, uh, it’s a long story, but he basically ended up dumping them into the Pacific Ocean. Fitz, the slightly younger of the two, he…he almost drowned. He’s recovering—slowly—but…there are a couple complications. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but…maybe you could take a look at him?”

            “Sure.” Bruce shrugged. “Next time he’s here…”

            “He’s already here,” Barton said. There was a soft sizzling sound as he pressed buttered bread to the griddle. “When they were rescued…we’d already met the team at this point, a couple of days beforehand. Simmons talked their rescuer into bringing Fitz here. He…he’s not in any shape to be moved.”

            Bruce frowned, worried. “Shouldn’t they have taken him to a hospital then?”

            “Probably,” Stark agreed. “But he’s here. We’re doing our best to take care of him, and…for the most part, it’s working. There are just one or two things…” He trailed off.

            “I’ll take a look,” Bruce promised.

            Barton flipped the sandwiches. “Once we’ve eaten, I’ll take him up a bowl of soup, if you want to go with me.”

            Bruce studied Barton for a minute. “How long have you been here?”

            “Six months—well, closer to seven now,” Barton replied.

            “Seriously?” Bruce said incredulously. He looked over at Stark. “I thought you were just calling us all after what happened with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            “Most of you, yeah,” Stark agreed. “But Natasha called in a favor back in November.”

            “What kind of favor are we talking about?”

            Barton sighed. “After the Battle of Manhattan, I…took a nosedive. I didn’t take losing Phil very well. Tony scraped me off a barstool in town and brought me here to sober up. Since I didn’t have anywhere else to go…” He shrugged.

            Bruce stared at Barton in surprise, then turned his astonishment to Stark. He honestly had never expected that sort of thing from the man. While he’d seen Stark’s good qualities underneath his carefully cultivated asshole persona, he still wouldn’t have thought of Tony Stark as somebody who would open his home to a homeless recovering alcoholic or a half-drowned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Not without an ulterior motive. Certainly he couldn’t imagine Stark letting someone stay for as long as Barton had without expecting to be paid for it. Yet that didn’t seem to be the case.

            “I offered to let the rest of Fitz’s team stay here on a permanent basis,” Stark said in an offhand way, grabbing four bowls out of a cabinet. “But they said they needed to be in an official facility.”

            “Somewhere with more privacy,” Barton explained to Bruce as he slid the sandwiches onto plates. “Better shielding, you know what I mean? This place has pretty good security, but it’s not exactly a _secret._ ”

            For being canned soup and American cheese, which demonstrated the properties of polymers better than most polymers, the meal was pretty darned good. Bruce hungrily devoured two sandwiches and was making inroads on a third bowl of soup when Stark said casually, “You know, you never did explain why you left New Delhi.”

            Bruce sputtered on his soup, gripping the spoon tightly. Barton shot Stark a glare. “Dammit, Tony, don’t _startle_ people like that.”

            “Especially not me,” Bruce coughed. He breathed deeply, trying to stop the other guy from putting in an appearance.

            “Aw, hell. Sorry, Banner.” Stark appeared genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to—well, okay, I did, but I wasn’t thinking.”

            Bruce waved a hand. He took a couple more breaths, then set down the spoon carefully, once he was sure he was under control. “I…kind of had to leave the village in a hurry. I was working a few days ago and…a bunch of guys with guns suddenly surrounded me. There was a lot of yelling and confusion and…well, the other guy made an appearance.” He tried to smile. “I…don’t think I can go back there for a while. And I’m lucky to be alive. Think the other guy had something to do with that.”

            Stark looked worried. “You okay?”

            “Physically, yeah. Couldn’t find any scratches or anything like that. And, you know, I didn’t wake up in a puddle of blood—mine or anyone else’s—so I guess that’s a good thing.”

            “Emotionally?” Stark asked sharply.

            Bruce was surprised—again—by the obvious concern in Stark’s expression. “I…I think I’m okay now. I’ve had time to calm down. And now that I’ve got the story on what was happening over here, I think I know who those guys were.”

            “HYDRA goons,” Barton guessed.

            “Probably. I mean, it’s not _great,_ but at least it wasn’t just random people who tried to kill me because they thought I was a witch doctor or something. They had a _reason_ for trying to take me out.”

            “Because you’re a good man,” Stark said seriously. “Better than I could ever hope to be.”

            Bruce shook his head. “I’m just a guy trying to do the right thing.”

            “It’s all any of us can claim to be,” Barton pointed out. He stood up and began filling the fourth bowl with soup.

            Stark ran his hand through his hair. “So, since you’re not going back to New Delhi…what _are_ your plans?”

            Bruce shrugged, grateful for the change of subject. “I have no idea. I guess I’ll figure something out eventually. I’m sure there’s a suitable place for me to hide out.”

            “Yeah, there is,” Stark said. “Here. For now, anyway. Once Fitz can be moved…Pepper’s cleaning out Stark Tower, and we’re reworking it as Avengers Tower.” He smiled a little. “Figured I might as well start giving back.”

            “Stark…I can’t,” Bruce protested, touched. “I can’t put you to the trouble.”

            “It’s no trouble. Seriously. I’ve got plenty of room.”

            “Really, I—”

            “Bruce,” Stark interrupted, quietly but firmly. “Please. I’ve been worried about you—about everyone. I’ve got Tasha and Cap’s cell numbers, and they’ve got mine, so we can talk if necessary. Same with Fitz’s team. I know where Thor is. But you…I don’t like the idea of not knowing where you are. HYDRA’s out there. You’re in danger on your own. This place isn’t perfect, but like I said, the security’s pretty good…and at least I’d know where you were. Please. I’d like you to stay.”

            Bruce stared at Stark in astonishment. He’d never heard such frank honesty from him. There was nothing false in his face; his eyes were completely open, the worry palpable. He meant every word he said.

            Bruce could only manage one in reply: “Why?”

            “Because you’re my friend,” Stark said simply.

            Bruce swallowed, hard. He’d never really had friends before—not even before the incident with the gamma radiation. He’d always been a loner. And to hear Stark call him that without hesitation…

            “Thanks,” he said quietly. “If you’re sure you don’t mind…”

            “I don’t mind,” Stark said instantly.

            Bruce smiled. “Then…I’ll stay.”

            “Good.” Stark smiled in reply. Suddenly, his eyes twinkled with mirth. “Just imagine all the trouble we can get into.”

            Bruce laughed. Barton rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he put the bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice on a tray. “Try not to blow up the house again, yeah? I’ve had enough explosions for one lifetime, thanks.”

            “Eh, I’ve already rebuilt this house twice. Don’t much feel like doing it a third time.” Stark grinned.

            Bruce got to his feet. “If you’re taking that up to—Fitz, did you say his name was?”

            Barton nodded. “Yeah, Agent Leo Fitz.”

            “I’d better go with you. I’ve got a basic medical kit…I can at least check him over.”

            “Thanks.” Barton looked relieved.

            “I’ll clean up in here, since you made dinner,” Stark said, also standing up. “If you guys need me, get J.A.R.V.I.S. to put in a call.”

            “Sure thing. Come on, Doc.”

            Bruce followed Barton up the stairs. As they reached the second floor, he said quietly, “So…I notice there aren’t any pictures up on these walls.”

            Barton paused and glanced back at him. “Huh?” he said, frowning and tilting his head slightly.

            “Pictures. On the walls. There aren’t any.” Bruce gestured to the stairwell for emphasis. “Why not?”

            Barton shrugged. “I never asked. My guess would be because there’s nothing out here he cares about enough to put up.”

            “Not even himself?” Bruce asked wryly.

            “He’s not as egotistical as he used to be,” Barton said, starting the climb again. “And, you know, he doesn’t entertain much, either. I guess you’ve realized a lot of that stuff was a front he put on in public. Living here for the last few months, I’ve found him to be surprisingly humble.”

            “So since nobody comes over here that he thinks he needs to impress…”

            “He doesn’t bother to put up pictures commemorating his achievements,” Barton said, nodding. “He’s got a picture of Pepper on his nightstand, and his background on his computer is a shot of us—the Avengers, I mean—someone took in New York. And Fitz and I each have a picture on our nightstands. But other than that, this is a picture-free zone.”

            Bruce was starting to wonder what was so special about this Agent Fitz. They had reached the top floor. He ducked around Barton to the room Tony had given him, retrieved his little black bag, and came back out. “Okay, where are we going?”

            To his mild surprise, Barton knocked at the door that was slightly ajar, then pushed it open. Bruce didn’t take much notice of the interior décor, his attention being drawn to the occupant of the bed. It was a young man with an oval-shaped face, light, curly hair, and pale eyes. He was propped up on a bunch of pillows. The bedside lamp was on, casting a warm light over the scene.

            “How’re you feeling, kid?” Barton asked gently.

            “About the same,” the young man answered. He had a Scottish lilt to his voice. “I sort of just woke up.”

            “That’s all right. How do you feel about tomato soup?”

            The young man glanced at the window, the curtains of which were half-drawn, exposing the storm outside. “That sounds wonderful.”

            Barton glanced over his shoulder at Bruce. “You want to examine him first, or…?”

            The young man whipped his head around, startled. Bruce hesitated. “Probably wouldn’t hurt.”

            “Okay.” Barton set the tray down on the nightstand, carefully shifting aside a couple of books and a framed photograph. “Banner, meet Agent Leo Fitz of S.H.I.E.L.D. Fitz, this is Dr. Bruce Banner.”

            “Hi.” Bruce smiled.

            Fitz’s eyes widened. “ _The_ Dr. Banner?” he blurted. “Wow, I—it’s an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan of—well, actually, I’ve never really read your work, but Jemma has, she’s a _huge_ fan.”

            “Uh, thanks,” Bruce said, a little bewildered. “Who’s Jemma?”

            “My—” Fitz hesitated, glancing at the photograph, his expression softening. “My friend, Agent Jemma Simmons. We’re our team’s scientists. She’s biochem, I’m tech. She’s, uh, she’s not here right now.”

            Bruce couldn’t help but grin. He recognized young love when he saw it. “I’d love to meet her sometime.”

            “I’m sure you will,” Barton said, smiling slightly. “They’ll be back.”

            “For now, let’s take a look at you.” Bruce sat down on the chair next to the bed and ran an eye over Fitz. His arm was in a cast—a couple of people had signed it, he noted—not much he could do about that. His expression was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and it was obvious that until fairly recently he’d been getting his nutrients through an IV line. “Let’s start at the beginning. What happened to you?”

            Fitz took a deep breath. “It’s…a long story. Ward—he was part of our team, but he—he was working for HYDRA.” His voice cracked as he said that. “He stole our Bus…Jemma and I located it, we were going to send one of our D.W.A.R.F. drones to bug it and then get back to the team, but he caught us. We managed to escape, we were trying to get away, and…Garrett sent him to kill us. He ended up…we sealed ourselves in a pod, and he dropped it into the ocean. I was able to brace Jemma’s back, but I broke my arm, and we sank to the bottom. Once Jemma came back around, we figured out how to blow the seal on the window. I found an oxygen bottle…it was empty, but I rigged it to give her a good blast of air. There wasn’t enough for two…she dragged me out anyway, but…I guess I almost drowned.”

            “Almost, nothing,” Barton put in. “Your lungs were full of fluid, and you were in cardiac arrest before—the rescue team pulled you out and saved you. You drowned. It just didn’t kill you.”

            Bruce winced. “Okay. Uh, how long ago was this?”

            Fitz thought for a minute. “Two weeks?” he asked Barton, uncertainly.

            Barton frowned for a moment. “Yeah—well, thirteen days.”

            “Thirteen days,” Bruce repeated. He could see the faint traces of a couple of healed cuts on Fitz’s face. “Okay. Are you…still feeling any after-effects? Pain, shortness of breath, anything like that?”

            “Still kind of achy. Sometimes it hurts to breathe, but not often.” Fitz hesitated, glancing at Barton, then looked back at Bruce and said softly, “And…I can’t move my legs.”

            Barton froze. Bruce forced himself to remain calm. “Can you feel them?”

            “Yeah,” Fitz answered. “They just…I can’t make them move.”

            Bruce dug around in his bag and produced a small hammer. “I’m gonna pull the covers back, okay?”

            Fitz nodded. Bruce turned the blanket and sheet down, exposing Fitz’s legs. The young man was clad in blue-and-white striped pajamas, his feet bare. Bruce carefully felt down both legs. Nothing appeared to be broken. He took the hammer and tapped Fitz’s knees, lightly but firmly. Not so much as a twitch from either one.

            Bruce frowned. “Did you feel that?”

            “Yes,” Fitz said, looking worried. “I felt it, I did, it’s just…”

            Bruce bit his lip momentarily. Lack of movement without loss of sensation didn’t seem normal to him. The reverse, maybe, but…“Do me a favor, Agent Fitz,” he said quietly. “Close your eyes for me.”

            Fitz closed his eyes without the slightest hesitation, leaning his head back. Barton frowned slightly, but Bruce ignored him. He prodded Fitz’s calf. “Did you feel that?”

            “Yes,” Fitz replied.

            Bruce tickled the bottom of Fitz’s foot. “How about that?”

            “Yeah. It tickles, and it kind of hurts.”

            “Sorry.” Bruce leaned over to squeeze Fitz’s thigh. “And that?”

            “Yeah.”

            Bruce hesitated. He stretched his hand above the young man’s knee, an inch away from touching. “Did you feel that?”

            “No.” There was a slight note of panic in Fitz’s voice. He opened his eyes and sat more upright, giving Bruce a look of such terror that he felt ashamed of himself. “I didn’t feel anything—was it something important you were touching? Is that why—?”

            “No, calm down, it’s okay.” Bruce held up both hands. “I didn’t touch you. There was nothing to feel. Sorry, but…I had to make sure.”

            Fitz relaxed. “I understand, sir,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t have believed me, either.”

            Bruce felt guilty. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that. And I’m sorry for doubting you. But…you’ve gotta admit, it’s weird.” He reached into his bag again. “Do me a favor, roll onto your good side.”

            Barton watched silently as Bruce poked, prodded, and examined the young man. After a few minutes, he sat back, shaking his head. “Okay, kid, you can sit up now.”

            Fitz rolled obediently back into position and looked at Bruce. “How bad is it?”

            “The soreness in your chest and muscles is just residual from the fall,” Bruce told him. “I think there might’ve been some bruising on the bones. Definitely some muscular damage, but that’s repairing, slowly. And it doesn’t help that your whole body was starved for oxygen for a while, and it’s still recovering from that.”

            “But…my legs?”

            Bruce hesitated. Finally, he said, “It’s…Fitz, I can’t explain it. I think it’s got to do with the stress and trauma you’ve gone through in the last few weeks. Whatever it is, there’s no nerve damage, no bone damage, no muscular damage. No reason at all why you _physically_ can’t move them.”

            “So it’s all in my head,” Fitz said weakly.

            “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but…yeah.” Bruce put his things back in the bag. “If it makes you feel better, I’m about ninety-nine point nine-bar-repeating certain that it’s not permanent. You’ll be able to walk again. It’s just going to take time. A lot of time.”

            Fitz tried to smile. “Any way you could speed up the process?” he joked.

            “Not unless you want to turn into a giant green rage monster or potentially outlive everybody you know and love, no.”

            “Thanks. I’ll pass.” Fitz leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

            Bruce guessed the kid was exhausted. “You can have your dinner now, if you want. Or you can get some sleep.”

            “I _am_ pretty hungry,” Fitz admitted. He opened his eyes and reached awkwardly for the tray.

            Barton jumped up and rested it on his lap, handing him the spoon. As he did so, Bruce noticed the picture on the nightstand. It showed Fitz with his arm around the shoulder of an attractive young woman with hair a couple shades darker than his and sparkling brown eyes. Both wore lab coats, and both were grinning at the camera like they hadn’t a care in the world.

            “Is that Jemma?” he asked.

            Fitz paused, looking at the picture again. “Yeah, that’s her,” he said softly. “That’s us, I mean. Right after we graduated from the Academy.”

            “What academy is this?”

            “Uh, S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy. The Sciences division.”

            “Oh. Duh.” Bruce watched Fitz eat for a moment. His hand was a little shaky, his movements not perfectly controlled. “You’re right-handed?”

            “Yeah.” Fitz sighed. “I did this once before, when I was seven. It was just as awkward then.”

            Bruce assumed that by “this”, Fitz meant his broken arm. “I know what you mean. I fell and broke my elbow when I was eight, right in the middle of the school year. Bad enough that I couldn’t take feed myself or tie my own shoes, I couldn’t even take notes or do my homework.”

            Fitz winced. “At least last time…it was summer.”

            “What a coincidence. It’s summer this time, too.” Bruce grinned.

            Fitz didn’t. His eyes widened. “Is it really?” he blurted.

            “Well, almost. End of spring.” Bruce tried to remember how many days were left until the solstice, but it didn’t seem to matter. Fitz was already relaxing.

            “Thought I’d lost a week or two in there,” he muttered under his breath.

            Barton’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Bruce wondered what that was all about but decided not to ask. “Nope. You’re still on track. Don’t worry.”

            “Yeah,” Fitz said quietly.

            He stared despondently into his bowl. Bruce cast about for a way to cheer him up. It had been a while since he’d been sick, thanks to the other guy, but he’d certainly been depressed a few times. And since Fitz didn’t have an alter ego to save him if he got too low, Bruce desperately wanted to keep his thoughts positive.

            “How many other people are there?” he asked at last. “On your team.”

            “There’s—there are six of us,” Fitz answered slowly, looking up. His expression was already a little bit clearer.

            Bruce smiled encouragingly. “Six, that’s a good number. There were six of us on the Avengers Initiative. Tell me about your team.”

            “Well…like I told you, Jemma and I are the science team. Skye’s our hacker. She started off as a consultant, she’d tried to hack S.H.I.E.L.D. files and got recruited to help us, but…they made her a full Level One agent a few days before…” Fitz gestured vaguely with his cast. Bruce nodded in understanding, hoping his expression looked sympathetic. “She’s…I always forget she’s not older than me. But she’s not, she’s two years younger. Anyway, then there’s Trip—Antoine Triplett, his grandfather was one of the Howling Commandos, so S.H.I.E.L.D. is in his blood. So he—I mean, he took what happened very personally. He’s a good agent, and he’s also a good sharpshooter—long-range shooting and all that. And Agent Melinda May…she’s a legend. People call her the Cavalry.”

            “But not to her face,” Barton put in. “Not if they want to survive.”

            “Right, she—she really hates that,” Fitz said. “But she’s an amazing fighter. She flies the Bus, but…I think she could have single-handedly taken out every single HYDRA agent we faced with nothing but her little finger if she’d wanted to.”

            “Sounds like Romanoff,” Bruce said to Barton.

            Barton gave him a half-smile. “May’s the only S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with more black belts than Nat, now that you mention it.”

            Bruce turned back to Fitz. “That’s five of you. Who’s the sixth?” He winced inwardly as the words left his mouth. He’d mentioned a guy named Ward who had been part of their team and tried to kill him…

            But there was a spark of pride in Fitz’s eyes as he answered, “Our leader. He’s _brilliant_. He’s brave and intelligent, and he looks out for us…he never gives up on us, and he won’t let us give up on each other, either. I trust him with my life. I’d follow him anywhere, do anything he asked me. I’d do anything _for_ him. We all would.”

            “He sounds like a good man,” Bruce said, smiling.

            “He is. He’s the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Fitz said. “Fury left the whole organization to him.”

            Bruce started. “Are you—is he serious?” he exclaimed, turning to Barton.

            Barton was glowing with a quiet pride. “He’s serious. And, frankly, there’s no one better to do it.”

            “Is this anyone I know?” Bruce began, then stopped. “No, it can’t be. I only really knew three people in S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury’s dead, Coulson is dead, and you keep saying _he,_ so it’s not Maria Hill. Who is this guy?”

            “Uh—” Fitz looked helplessly at Barton.

            “You’ll meet him,” Barton said. “Eventually. Tony’s helping with the rebuild, like he told you earlier, and this team…they’re _really_ close. They’ve been working and living together for the last year, and…”

            “We’re a family,” Fitz said softly.

            Barton nodded. “So they’ll be by, sooner or later.”

            Bruce guessed that the guy’s identity was a closely-guarded secret, for one reason or another. “Then I can’t wait to meet them,” he said. It was only partially untrue. Bruce was an introvert anyway, and the other guy gave him serious social anxiety, so he didn’t usually like meeting new people. Especially not new people from official organizations. On the other hand, he’d come to like Fitz in the brief conversation they’d had. “If they’re anything like you, they must be pretty amazing.”

            “They are,” Barton told him. Fitz blushed pink.

            “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a family, so I can imagine why you’d be eager to see yours. I hope for your sake they come soon.”

            “Me, too,” Fitz said, so softly Bruce almost didn’t hear him. His eyelids were drooping as he spoke. The spoon clattered softly into the bowl as Fitz leaned back into the pillows.

            Barton looked worried as he collected the tray, leaving the orange juice on the nightstand. “I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to fall asleep like that.”

            “He’s recovering from some pretty serious trauma,” Bruce pointed out. “It’s understandable. He’s gonna sleep a lot while his body heals.” He got to his feet. “On top of that, I suspect there might be a little bit of depression there, and that makes you tired, too.”

            “Yeah, I know,” Barton admitted.

            The two of them left the room. Bruce glanced down at his stuff. “I’m gonna go put this away. Catch you up.”

            He turned and headed down the hallway. It took him less than a minute to put the little black bag in the closet, and he caught up with Barton on the second landing. The stocky archer turned in surprise. “Hey, what happened to you?”

            “I was—” Bruce began, surprised, then stopped. Certain things were coming back to him, little moments he’d surprised on Barton’s face. “Barton, how long has your hearing been going?”

            Barton blushed scarlet. “Uh—‘bout a week or so. Well, that’s when it started up again. I had something like thirty percent hearing loss in my left ear when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D.—damage sustained while I was a merc—and it got worse a few years later. I was captured and tortured during a mission gone wrong, and when I came out of it, everything was…muffled. Don’t know what the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical team did, but it gradually improved over the next two years until I had more or less normal hearing. But in the last week or so…it’s started going again.”

            Bruce shook his head worriedly. “You’ve probably got scar tissue on your eardrums. You really ought to have a hearing aid, especially if you’re still working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Won’t do you any good to work with a team if you can’t hear what they’re telling you.”

            “Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to say something to Tony, but…” Barton shrugged.

            “Out of curiosity, did you know about Fitz not being able to move his legs?”

            “No, I didn’t.”

            “ _Damn_ it!” An unreasonable surge of anger pushed at Bruce. He could feel the other guy straining to come down, and he knew the stairs were shaking as he stomped down them. He was vaguely aware of Barton hurrying in his wake, but he ignored him, bursting into the kitchen.

            “Do _you_ have any medical issues you’re hiding from people?” he snapped, poking a finger at a very surprised-looking Stark.

            “What? No!” Stark held up both hands in a defensive gesture. “Everything’s aboveboard. Last medical issue I had was a panic attack, and that was a couple weeks ago and it was in front of everybody. Honest. I’ve done the whole don’t-tell-the-people-you-love-that-you’re-dying thing and I’m not going to do that again. I promised Pepper.”

            “If I find out you’re lying—” Bruce snarled.

            Barton put a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, Banner, I’m sorry—”

            “ _Don’t touch me!”_ Bruce was torn between anger and outright panic now, the other guy was fighting for control—and he was _winning—_ and even though he knew it was a stupid, trivial thing to lose his temper over, he didn’t think he could stop himself. He could feel his clothing getting tighter, his vision starting to blur at the edges.

            Instead of letting go, Barton tightened his grip. “ _Chill._ We’re your friends, Bruce. It’s okay.”

            Something in Bruce’s shoulder went _click._ Instead of getting angrier, he found that the muscles in his neck and shoulders had suddenly relaxed. He could feel the tension and anger flowing out of him. Hesitantly, he reached up to rub his neck.

            Barton let go. “Better?”

            “Yeah.” Bruce turned to Barton in mild surprise. “What did you do?”

            “Reflexology. Sort of. It’s a pseudoscience at best, but…well, I discovered years ago that when Phil was overly stressed, if I applied pressure to the muscle right there, it calmed him down pretty quickly.”

            Bruce tried to digest that for a minute. Stark still looked wary. “Did I miss something? With the medical issues thing?”

            “I’ve been losing my hearing,” Barton explained simply. “It’s an issue I had when I was younger that got better, but in the last week it’s started getting worse again. And Fitz can’t move his legs. He can _feel_ them, but he can’t _move_ them. Banner says it’s psychosomatic.”

            Stark turned pale. “Oh, hell. Is he gonna be okay?”

            “Yeah,” Bruce said, still rubbing at his neck a little dazedly. “It’ll take time, but…I think it’s partly the trauma and partly stress. Eventually he’ll be able to walk again…” He frowned at Barton. “Wait, who’s Phil?”

            “Coulson. He was my handler when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., and we became friends pretty quickly. And then two years later we became lovers.”

            Bruce swallowed hard. He remembered Barton saying that he knew what the effects of depression were, remembered that Barton had spent two years drinking before Stark scraped him off the floor, and realized why that was. “Oh. I…I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. Really.” Barton’s expression softened. Seemingly without conscious thought, he ran two fingers over his collarbone.

            Bruce decided not to ask about that. Stark tapped the rim of his coffee cup against his teeth. “I can’t do anything about Fitz’s legs…I mean, if it’s psychosomatic, all the tech in the world can’t overcome that.”

            “Like I said, he’ll be able to walk again, given time,” Bruce said reassuringly. “I think his arm is gonna have to heal first, though. That seems like it took a lot out of him.”

            Stark didn’t seem to be listening. “You, though, I _can_ do something for,” he said, eyeing Barton. “How bad is the hearing loss? Both ears or just one?”

            Barton shrugged. “I don’t know. When I was diagnosed initially—when I first came to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.—it was a thirty percent loss in the left ear. But…remember me telling you about why Phil and I made a promise to not go to bed mad at one another?” Stark nodded. “After that, it got worse, in both ears. They did…something…to me, and the hearing pretty much repaired itself over the next two years, but…just in the last week or so, it’s gotten worse again.”

            “Hmm.” Stark’s eyes took on an expression Bruce had noticed a few times in their admittedly limited interaction, the intensity that said he was contemplating a problem. “I wouldn’t want to try and build something without knowing exactly how much loss we’re talking about here. I mean, if it magnifies sound too much, it’ll just blow out what hearing you’ve got left and then you’ll be worse off than before, but at the same time, what good is it if it doesn’t bring you at _least_ up to normal speed? Give me a couple days and I’ll build a machine to test your hearing, then I can build you something.”

            Bruce rolled his eyes. Leave it to Stark to come up with an overly complicated solution to a relatively simple problem. “Or, you know, he could go see an _actual_ doctor about the issue,” he pointed out.

            “Not gonna happen,” Stark said seriously. “HYDRA might mostly have been within S.H.I.E.L.D., but there’s no guarantee they’re not elsewhere as well.”

            Bruce looked from Stark to Barton and back. “Aren’t you being just the slightest bit paranoid?”

            “No,” Barton and Stark said in unison. Bruce was taken aback slightly.

            “The thing is,” Barton explained, his expression serious, “we really _don’t_ know how extensive this infiltration was. HYDRA had soldiers _and_ scientists, both biochem and tech. They could have people posing as legit medical doctors as well as S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists. For that matter, I don’t have any guarantee that the medical team that fixed my hearing in the first place wasn’t made up of HYDRA, although frankly I don’t think I’m important enough to warrant that kind of attention. Or at least, I wasn’t back then.”

            “But what possible reason could you have for believing a HYDRA agent was posing as an audiologist?” Bruce argued.

            “Until three weeks ago, what reason did we have for believing a HYDRA agent was posing as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?” Stark asked. “And now look. Fury’s dead, along with a lot of other good men and women. Fitz was betrayed by someone he thought cared about him, and he’ll never be the same again. S.H.I.E.L.D. is in shambles, half the world thinks they’ve been lied to and the other half think they’ll never be safe again, and even people like us are going to be looked at suspiciously. About the only good thing that came out of all this—and it’s only really a good thing if you squint—is that Cap found out his best friend is still alive, sort of.” He shook his head. “I fully admit that I’m a suspicious bastard, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not particularly inclined to trust outsiders right now. There’s a reason I haven’t called in a doctor to look at Fitz.”

            “Yeah, but…an audiologist?”

            “It’s a weakness,” Stark said simply. “They might use it against him. Or what’s to stop them from building a hearing aid that’s actually a tracking device, or a brainwashing tool, or a bomb? It’s too big of a risk and I’m not willing to take it with anyone else’s life. So, yeah, not unless it’s legitimately a life-or-death matter. I’ll build something to take care of everything I can.”

            Bruce had to admit that Stark’s logic was understandable. It just surprised him. He honestly hadn’t considered Tony Stark to be the kind of guy who cared about anyone but himself, and maybe one or two other people. Bruce knew that Stark loved Pepper to distraction, and that he liked Rhodey, but he’d kind of assumed that was the extent of Stark’s concern.

            “You know…” Bruce hesitated. “I never would have expected you to be this concerned about…people. Especially people you barely know.”

            Stark smiled slightly. “Fitz grew on me pretty quickly. He reminds me of me when I was a kid.”

            “How’d you meet him?” Bruce asked, genuinely curious.

            “The leader of his team is an…old friend,” Stark said carefully. “He…stopped by a couple of days before Fitz got hurt, and I met the team. And like I said, Fitz grew on me. Then Simmons had him brought here.” He moved over to the coffee pot and began refilling his cup. “And now…well, you’ll understand when you meet them. They remind me a lot of us. Simmons is the biochemist, like you, and then Fitz is the techie. Trip is a lot like Clint here—he’s a good marksman but stays in the background mostly. May is basically what Natasha will be when she grows up. Skye…well, personality-wise she’s a lot like me, but there’s a lot of her that reminds me of Thor, to a point. And…you know, the leader is a hell of a lot like Rogers.”

            “Or what Steve will be, once he’s had time to mature a little,” Barton put in. “After all, he’s almost twice Steve’s age.”

            “I didn’t know people lived that long,” Bruce said dryly. “Isn’t Rogers in his nineties?”

            “Actually, no. He might’ve been born in 1918, but he’s only actually _experienced_ twenty-eight of those years. He’s the baby of the group.” Barton tossed off the last of his coffee. “He’s just used to taking charge. And he was a war vet, so naturally everybody—even Fury—expected him to lead the Avengers because he was this big damn hero. Really, though, he was just a scared kid. You know he’d only been un-frozen for a couple weeks when we all met? Two weeks to get used to the fact that he was still alive. Two weeks to get used to the fact that it wasn’t 1944 anymore. Two weeks to cope with knowing that he survived and all his friends were either dead or dying. Frankly, I’m surprised he was able to hold it together long enough to project any kind of aura of competence at all.”

            Bruce stared at Barton, his mouth hanging open. “No, I…I didn’t realize that at all,” he managed.

            Barton nodded. “Someone—meaning well, I think—gave him Peggy Carter’s file right before everything happened, too.”

            “Peggy Carter. That’s the woman he was interested in, right?” Bruce tried to recall what he knew about Captain America.

            “Yeah. She’s still alive, but she’s in a nursing home in Arlington. Dementia. I don’t think it’s Alzheimer’s, but whatever it is, she’s got no short-term memory. He visits her as often as he can—or he used to—and at least three times a visit, she…resets, I guess.”

            Bruce felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Rogers. “What about the rest of his friends? Are they…?”

            “Dead,” Barton said quietly. “Farnsworth died in ’96, Jones in ’03, Dernier in ’99. Dugan died fairly young, he was one of the original agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Killed during a mission in ’74. Jim Morita would’ve been ninety this year, but…he passed away in his sleep the night before they dug Steve out of the ice.”

            Stark winced. “Yikes. I didn’t realize it was that close.”

            “And, okay, Bucky Barnes is still alive, but he didn’t find that out until a few weeks ago,” Barton continued. “Apparently he survived the fall off the train—something to do with the experiments Zola did on him in that HYDRA prisoner-of-war camp, I’m sure—but HYDRA found him, wiped his brain, turned him into a…machine, basically. They called him the Winter Soldier.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So, yeah. Kid’s had it rough the last couple of years. But nobody’s ever really bothered to ask how he was, I don’t think. Everybody just assumed he could handle it. Hell, he’s Captain America, right? He can do anything.”

            “Including fall apart at the seams,” Bruce said.

            “Exactly.”

            “So where is he now?” Bruce looked around, half-expecting Rogers to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

            Stark shrugged. “We’re not completely sure. He’s looking for his friend, that’s all we know. But he’ll be back. Either here or when we move out to New York.”

            “You’re serious about wanting us all together.” Bruce felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. “Is this about the Avengers Initiative?”

            “No,” Stark said, frowning slightly. “It’s exactly what I said on the phone. You guys are my friends. I want to make sure you’re all safe. But like it or not, we _are_ the Avengers. We’re a team. I wasn’t just blowing smoke up Loki’s ass when I told him we were Earth’s mightiest heroes. And if we’re needed to come to its defense, I for one would like to know where everyone is _beforehand._ But no, that wasn’t my only reasoning in offering everyone a place to stay. Truthfully, I didn’t even think about it until fairly recently.”

            “Sorry,” Bruce said, trying to smile. “Didn’t mean to doubt your altruism. It’s just…”

            “Just that as of two years ago, I wasn’t particularly altruistic,” Stark supplied with a smirk. “I get it. Don’t worry about it.”

            Bruce recalled the conversation they’d had when he first walked in. “Is that what you meant when you said you had a room ready for me even though you didn’t know I was coming?”

            “Yeah. I didn’t know you were coming _today,_ but I knew you’d be here eventually. I figured you’d be here before we moved, too. Natasha and Steve are both busy with their little side projects, so I have no idea when they’ll turn up to stay. And Thor…”

            “Where is he, anyway?” Bruce asked, curious.

            “London,” Stark replied. “Staying with Dr. Foster—you know, the astrophysicist, the one who worked with Selvig before he joined the Tesseract Project? They’ve got a thing. Anyway, somehow I doubt he’ll come back stateside until we need his help.”

            “I wouldn’t, either, if I had someone to keep me elsewhere,” Bruce replied. He stifled a yawn.

            Stark glanced at the clock. “What time did your plane land today?”

            “Uh, quarter to nine, give or take a few minutes.” Bruce glanced at the clock, too, then did a double-take. It was a lot later than he’d thought it was—almost nine in the evening.

            “Jesus, no wonder you’re tired, that’s like a nine-hour walk,” Stark half-scolded. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

            Bruce considered protesting, then yawned again and decided that a good night’s sleep on a _real_ bed might not be such a bad idea. “Thanks again, Stark. ‘Night.”

            “’Night, Banner.”

            Bruce trudged up the stairs. He hesitated, then poked his head into Fitz’s room briefly. The young man was sound asleep, his breathing even, fortunately. The storm was still raging outside, and the lamp was still on. Quietly, Bruce turned out the light and tugged the curtains closed, then slipped out again.

            The other guy had been appeased. Bruce crawled into the bed, sank into the pillows, and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes, he was sound asleep.

* * *

            It was still raining when Bruce opened his eyes the next morning, but not quite as hard. The nastiest part of the storm seemed to have passed over. Bruce got himself dressed and looked out the window. The room faced east. Rain fell in gentle showers over the treetops. The sky was a uniform slate grey, with no sign of a break in the cloud cover. Probably it would rain throughout the day.

            The other doors on the corridor were closed when Bruce came out. He didn’t know if that was just because none of them were awake or because they closed their doors out of habit. Just in case, he took care to be quiet as he headed down the stairs.

            The kitchen was deserted, but someone was obviously awake, because there was a fresh pot of coffee. Bruce hesitated, then fixed himself a cup. It was odd, but caffeine didn’t seem to agitate the other guy. Decaf, on the other hand, made him jittery and on edge. He’d learned not to question it.

            “Where _is_ everyone?” he muttered, hardly aware he’d spoken aloud.

            He jumped when a cultured voice answered him, seemingly out of nowhere. “Master Clint and Master Leo are still asleep, and Master Tony is downstairs in the lab, sir.”

            “Who’s there?” Bruce asked, looking around in bewilderment and clutching the coffee mug tightly, trying to fight back the other guy.

            “My apologies, sir,” the voice said. The room was still empty. “I am J.A.R.V.I.S., Master Tony’s butler.”

            “Yes, but where _are_ you?” Bruce insisted.

            “I am an A.I., Master Bruce.”

            The British accent calling him “Master Bruce” made him feel like somebody entirely different—somebody richer, somebody stronger, somebody (oddly) taller. Bruce felt his heart rate slow back to a more normal level. “Oh, okay. Sorry, it’s just—it startled me a little.” He took a deep breath. “Uh, where is the lab?”

            “Down the stairs, sir, and to the left.”

            Cradling his cup of coffee, Bruce located the stairs down to the next level. On the right was a gymnasium, with a boxing ring and several other pieces of equipment; to the left was a set of sliding doors, which opened obediently as Bruce went in.

            It reminded him of the lab on the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, except more technologically advanced. Pieces of machinery littered most of the surfaces, along with projects in various states of completion. Stark stood at the center of a C-shaped arrangement of computer monitors and receptors, staring at what looked like an official government website of some kind.

            “What are you up to?” Bruce asked, coming closer.

            Stark quickly waved a hand at the screen. The window disappeared, to be replaced with the desktop, or what passed for a desktop on one of Stark’s computers. “Just looking into something. Sleep okay?”

            “Yeah, thanks.” Bruce decided not to press the issue. If Stark wanted to tell him what he’d been looking at, he would. “You?”

            “Up all night.” Stark didn’t sound the slightest bit sheepish. “Bouncing between a couple of different projects. I got about halfway done with the machine to test Clint’s hearing—” he waved in the direction of what looked like a listening booth in an old-fashioned record store—“but I got stuck. Want to give me a hand?”

            Bruce set down the coffee cup. “I’ll give it my best shot. What do you need?”

            The easy working rapport they’d developed two years before returned as the two of them worked over the machine. Bruce was surprised at the sophistication of the device, but there were a few tweaks necessary because Stark didn’t have as good a grasp of biology as Bruce did.

            “One of us is gonna have to test this, you realize,” Stark said, adjusting some of the wires at the back.

            Bruce paused over the calibrations he was running. “Uh, it’s gonna have to be you. I don’t do enclosed spaces.”

            “Is that why you didn’t come down in the elevator?”

            “There’s an elevator?” Surprised, Bruce turned. For the first time, he saw another pair of sliding doors, darker than the ones he’d come through and trimmed with chrome.

            Stark smirked. “Well, there you go.”

            Before Bruce could turn back to what he was doing, the elevator doors opened, exposing Barton, wearing a black t-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol in white and a pair of jeans. “Morning, fellas,” he said, raising his coffee cup.

            “Morning.” Stark waved casually. “Fitz awake yet?”

            “Yeah, he’s been up for about an hour. J.A.R.V.I.S. told me the two of you were awake and down here, so I took him up some soft-scrambled eggs and sat with him while he ate.” Barton came into the lab. “He got a call from Simmons a couple of minutes ago. They’ll be coming by this afternoon—something about some names you promised to run?”

            Stark nodded. “Had those ready for a couple of days now.”

            Barton looked the booth up and down. “What’s this? A torture device?”

            “Hearing booth,” Stark replied cheerfully. “Let me test it out and then we can check your hearing levels.”

            “Why not just test it on me?”

            “Because if it does something like zap whoever’s sitting in the chair, I’d rather be the one that gets zapped.” Stark seated himself on the chair, pulled on the pair of earphones, and gave Bruce the high sign.

            Bruce began flipping switches, then keyed in the sequence for the hearing test. Stark rested his hands on the armrests, seemingly perfectly relaxed. Every so often, his fingers twitched, pressing one button or another. Bruce watched the numbers crawl past him on the screen.

            Finally the booth powered down. As Stark removed the earphones, the display screen flashed a few times as the computer processed the results.

            “Well?” Stark inquired, emerging from the booth.

            The computer _pinged._ Bruce pointed to the screen. “You’ve got a one percent hearing loss in your right ear.”

            “Huh. Go figure.” Stark raised an eyebrow. “Well, it seems to be working just fine. You ready, Clint?”

            “Sure.” Barton skirted past Stark. “What do I do?”

            “Take a seat, put on the headphones, and give us a thumbs-up when you’re ready. The computer will tell you what to do from there. Don’t take them off until it tells you to.”

            “Got it.”

            Stark watched Barton seat himself, then turned to Bruce. “Seriously, no trouble on this end?”

            “You waited for him to sit down to ask that?” Bruce asked wryly. “No, everything’s fine. Not so much as a wobble.”

            “Good.” Stark hesitated as Barton gave them a thumbs-up. “Here, let me key it in.”

            Bruce stepped to one side. Stark typed in the sequence he’d coded in, then pushed the start button and turned to watch. Bruce, too, was interested. Barton’s fingers didn’t move anywhere near as much as Stark’s had. A few times, he gave Stark a curious look, but he never said anything or tried to get out of the chair.

            Finally, the test ended and the screen began flashing as it made its calculations. Bruce didn’t need to wait for them to know that Barton had at _least_ a fifty-percent hearing loss.

            “You okay?” Stark asked as Barton came out.

            “Yeah. I’m not sure I followed a couple of those instructions right…it _sounded_ like what I did, but it was kind of…muddy.”

            “Don’t worry. The computer will take that into account.”

            The computer beeped. Bruce stared at the numbers. “Damn,” he said quietly.

            “What?” Stark looked over Bruce’s shoulder, then did a double-take before turning to glare at Barton. “Damn it, Clint, you should have told me you were having _that_ much trouble hearing!”

            “I didn’t think about it!” Barton said, spreading out his hands helplessly. “How bad is it?”

            “Fifty percent loss in the right ear,” Bruce told him. “Seventy-two percent in the left. No _wonder_ you’ve been missing stuff.”

            Barton’s eyes widened. “Damn.”

            “No problem,” Stark said with a shrug, although he still looked worried. “Shouldn’t take me too long to whip you up a pair of hearing aids that nobody’ll ever notice. Something tiny, precise, and not dependent on a battery.”

            “I’m not exactly comfortable with the idea of having nuclear devices in my ears,” Barton said dryly.

            “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d have to wear a ten-gallon hat full of coolant.” Stark flashed Barton a grin before heading over to his workbench.

            “Need a hand?” Bruce asked, a little uncertainly. Hearing aids weren’t exactly biochemical devices, and they were tiny enough that he wasn’t sure he could comfortably work with them.

            Stark was shaking his head anyway. “No, I’m good. You can stick around and watch if you really want to, but I should be able to do this on my own.”

            “I’m gonna go take up watch on the roof,” Barton said, picking up his coffee cup again. “I know they said this afternoon, but that could mean anything with Ph—with this team.”

            Bruce hesitated. “Mind if I go with you?” he asked.

            “Not at all. See you around, Tony.”

            Stark waved absently without looking up. “Have J.A.R.V.I.S. call if you need me.”

            “Will do.” Barton started for the elevator, paused, and then turned for the stairs.

            “Thanks,” Bruce said as they began climbing the stairs. “The other guy…he doesn’t really like small, confined spaces. Come to think of it, neither do I.”

            “A little claustrophobia is a good thing,” Barton said. “Truthfully, I usually avoid the elevator during storms. I’m okay with it when I’m reasonably certain it’ll open at the other end, but I’ve been a prisoner too often to really be comfortable with the idea of being trapped in a six-by-four windowless room.”

            Bruce tried not to think about how small a space that actually was. “And you still don’t think you were important enough to HYDRA for them to have deliberately sabotaged your hearing?”

            Barton shot Bruce a quick grin as he paused at a door tucked under the steps on the first floor. “Frankly, I didn’t get captured because I had any kind of strategic importance. I think it was mostly just that I was in the wrong place at the right time.”

            “Don’t you mean the wrong place at the wrong time?”

            “Double negative.” Barton pulled out a compound bow and a quiver of arrows. “Someone who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing’s gonna happen.”

            “That makes sense,” Bruce admitted. “But…how many times _have_ you been taken prisoner? If you don’t mind me asking.”

            “Let me think.” Barton’s brow furrowed in concentration as he headed up the steps. “Rovaniemi, Budapest, Daytona Beach— _that_ was a wild mission—Moscow, Winnipeg, St. Kitts on two separate occasions, Tryon—”

            “Tryon?”

            “Nebraska. Last place God made, I swear.” Barton rubbed the back of his neck. “There was a little Cornish fishing village, too, that turned out to be a front for…something, we never did quite figure out what. If you count what Loki did to me in New York, that brings the total up to ten.”

            “And you’ve been in S.H.I.E.L.D. for…how long?”

            “Twenty years.”

            “That’s once every two years,” Bruce pointed out. “Less, because you’ve been off the grid for the last two years. Once every eighteen months, on average.”

            “I never thought of it like that,” Barton admitted. “Still…it could just be that I’m a little more careless than the average S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Not every group who captured us had something to do with HYDRA.”

            Somehow, Bruce wasn’t buying that. “I’ll grant you that Loki didn’t have anything to do with HYDRA. You know, beyond the fact that HYDRA had the Tesseract at one point and that scepter of his was connected to it. But the others…I’ve seen you fight, Barton. You don’t get close enough to the action to get caught.”

            Barton flushed. “I see better from a distance.”

            He sounded a little defensive. Bruce suddenly realized how his words had come across. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—like you said, you do better from a distance. You’re the cover. Your part of any given mission involves you being high and hidden. There’s no way you should have been caught _that_ many times unless someone was tipped off that you were there, and unless there was some good reason for you to be captured and not taken out.”

            Barton put a hand to his side, seemingly without conscious thought. “I’m not important,” he said quietly. “I’m not even a particularly outstanding S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, just an experienced one. At best, I’m average. I’m an ordinary guy using a stick and string from the Paleolithic Era. I never had any information worth telling. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have paid a dime in ransom for me, either. I never even got an extraction plan.”

            “Then how did you get out when you were captured?” Bruce asked.

            “Phil—” Barton stopped, his foot hovering above the step halfway between the third floor and the roof.

            “Coulson got you out?” Bruce said sharply. “ _Every_ time?”

            “Son of a bitch,” Barton said softly. All the color drained from his face. “I was goddamned _bait._ God, if I’d realized that…”

            “Would it have made any difference?” Bruce remembered the tenseness in Coulson’s shoulders, the way he’d flinched almost imperceptibly every time someone had mentioned Barton’s name while they were on the helicarrier. Little things he hadn’t paid much attention to at the time, but which, in retrospect, were pretty obvious. “If you’d told him that the reason you kept getting captured was to draw him out, and that he needed to stop coming after you—would he have?”

            Barton let out a huge breath and resumed climbing. “No. He would have thought I was being stupid. He never believed he was that important, that anybody would have considered him anything but another cog in the machinery of S.H.I.E.L.D. I used to tell him how special he was, but…he never believed me.”

            Bruce didn’t say anything, suspecting he’d already said too much. The more he thought about it, though, the more he was certain he was right. It was lucky for HYDRA, in a twisted sort of way, that Loki had killed Coulson; they never would have been able to conceive of world domination if he’d still been around. Not that Bruce had known him particularly well, but the man was like a terrier—small, enthusiastic, totally dedicated, and fiercely loyal. If Coulson was still around, Bruce wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn for HYDRA’s chances. With both him _and_ Fury out of the picture?

            No, he thought as they emerged onto the roof, annoying as it was, Stark was right. The Avengers were _it._ If it came down to it, they would have to band together and save the Earth.

            The rain had faded into a steady drizzle. Barton handed Bruce an umbrella, but didn’t take one for himself as he headed out. Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Want me to hold this over you, too?”

            “Nah. Rain doesn’t bother me.” Barton took up a position on the northwest corner of the house, facing the long driveway. “Rained harder than this in New Mexico that time.”

            Bruce joined him, a little hesitantly. “What happened in New Mexico?”

            “Hmm? Oh.” Barton smiled. “Phil was—he was here, actually, baby-sitting Tony—when Fury called him about an 0-8-4 in New Mexico.”

            “A—what, sorry?” Bruce frowned.

            “An 0-8-4. S.H.I.E.L.D. code for an object of unknown origin or significance. He got out there and found a crater in the middle of the desert, with a hammer in the middle of it.”

            Bruce slowly smiled. “Thor’s hammer?”

            Barton grinned. “The one and only. I came out as part of the team, mostly as a guard while a team of researchers and scientists tried to figure out exactly what it was. We didn’t know at the time, see. I was the ‘eyes in the sky’ when Thor broke into the facility, fought his way through the ground-pounders, and tried to pull his hammer out of the rock it was embedded in.”

            “That thing’s heavy,” Bruce agreed, remembering—vaguely—the other guy trying to pick it up off the floor of the helicarrier and failing miserably.

            “It’s not really that heavy,” Barton explained. “If it were just heavy, it would’ve punched through the hull of the helicarrier. It’s more…stubborn, I guess? It’s a fixed quantum point in the universe. Thor doesn’t so much swing it around as it shifts the universe around itself to suit.”

            “How did you know that?” Bruce asked, startled.

            “I asked Selvig while we were working on the Tesseract project. Anyway, you have to be considered…worthy of it to use it. And at the time, Thor wasn’t. He’d screwed up, big time. I never asked exactly what it was he’d done, but…you know, Thor might _technically_ be older than us, but Asgardians live to be thousands of years old. My best guess is their life-span is a hundred times that of humans, at least. In terms of his development, he probably wasn’t more than eighteen or twenty-one at the time. He was a dumb kid and his father punished him by taking his powers away and banishing him to Earth.”

            “The ultimate in grounding,” Bruce said dryly.

            Barton laughed. “On the other hand, that’s how he met Jane. And how he came to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s attention. Let’s be honest, we probably couldn’t have beat Loki without Thor’s help. Besides, he really _earned_ his powers after that.”

            “Does he still have them? Do you know?” Bruce asked curiously.

            “I assume so.” Barton shrugged. “Tony showed me the news reports once I sobered up. Apparently he came to Earth back in November to meet some threat or other. Made a hell of a mess of the place, too.”

            Bruce was beginning to realize just how cut off from the world he’d been in New Delhi, not that he’d minded. “I always wondered who gets stuck with clean-up after something like that.”

            “S.H.I.E.L.D. has a clean-up division. Sometimes regular active agents take a turn if it’s a mess where there’s a potential for 0-8-4s or other dangerous items to be lying around—Fitz’s team was involved in helping with the aftermath of Thor’s latest battle—but for the everyday stuff, like cleaning up in New York, there’s a regular division that handles it.” Barton chuckled. “Sometimes Fury liked to punish agents who _just didn’t get it_ by temporarily assigning them to the squad.”

            “You ever get assigned there?” Bruce asked with a grin.

            “Nah,” Barton replied. “I’m pretty good at minimizing the collateral damage. Most of the time, the agents who got switched were ones who firmly believed that the ends justified the means. You know, that it didn’t matter how many buildings got broken or how many cars got destroyed, as long as they got the bad guy. Kids mostly.”

            Bruce tilted the umbrella slightly. “You know, I wonder if insurance companies cover S.H.I.E.L.D.-related damage.”

            “Depends on the city,” Barton replied lightly. “Most New York policies have optional ‘super-hero’ coverage, where if you pay extra on your premiums they’ll cover damage caused by, say, Captain America using your car as cover during a firefight or Iron Man missing an enemy robot and launching a rocket through your living room window.”

            Bruce couldn’t help but laugh. After a few minutes, he added, “Thanks, Barton.”

            Barton turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “For what?”

            “Making me laugh. Talking to me like I’m…human.”

            “You _are_ human.”

            “Yeah, but…people tend to forget that. What with…the other guy.”

            Barton shrugged. “The other guy’s human, too, isn’t he?”

            The question threw Bruce off his guard. “You know—I never thought about it before. I guess so. Just…a mutated one.”

            “Well, then, why wouldn’t I treat you like you were human?” Barton asked, smiling. “I know you’re used to people tap-dancing around you. They’re afraid of setting off the other guy. But if I recall correctly, you told Steve that your secret was that you were _always_ angry, so as long as I don’t make any sudden moves and _startle_ him, you should be able to control him.”

            “You’re right,” Bruce admitted. “And…you know what I’ve found out?”

            “No, tell me.”

            “These days, if I let the other guy come out—if it’s _me_ who decides and not him—I’m in a lot better control. I can speak more coherently and perform more complex tasks and…you know, it’s not just a ‘giant green rage monster,’ as Stark so aptly put it.”

            “The man does have a good turn of phrase, doesn’t he?” Barton laughed. “And that makes sense, actually. I remember reading a lot of werewolf legends when I was younger, and that was the case for them. When they transformed involuntarily—like during the full moon—the wolf took control, but when it was their choice, they remembered everything and were in full control of themselves.”

            “I never read a lot of fiction as a kid,” Bruce said. “Still don’t. I was more into scientific journals, technical manuals, that kind of thing.”

            “Your loss.”

            “Yeah, well…maybe I’ll start. I just never saw the point.”

            “It’s an escape,” Barton said quietly. “I grew up in a circus, and…it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There’s a lot of shady stuff that goes on beyond the Big Top. The glitz of show business covers up a lot of darkness. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. I read fantasy and science fiction stories to escape all that.”

            Bruce sighed, looking down the road. “I guess with the world like it is, you need that escape more than ever, huh?”

            Barton shook his head. “Trust me, it was a lot worse when I was younger. At least now the whole world sucks, and everyone knows it, so I have other people who understand. Friends, you know? People I can talk to. What I went through as a kid…that was my own private hell. I couldn’t tell anyone about it. But if I lost myself in a book, no one could get at me. Usually.”

            “What the hell happened to you in the circus?” Bruce asked, looking up at the archer.

            Barton didn’t answer for a minute. “Tell you some other time. Maybe.”

            Bruce guessed that, whatever had gone on, it wasn’t something Barton wanted to discuss. He let it go.

            Barton glanced at his watch. “Almost noon,” he said, almost to himself. “They’ll be here any time now.”

            “How are they getting here?” Bruce asked.

            “SUV, probably. Tony loaned them one he built, and I think they’ve got a couple more. But I can’t be sure.” Barton paused, looking down the road, then smiled. “Definitely SUV.”

            “I thought you couldn’t be sure,” Bruce said wryly.

            “I couldn’t before,” Barton said. He pointed. “But there they are. The one in the lead—that’s B.E.C.K.A.”

            Bruce followed Barton’s finger. Sure enough, he could see the headlights from two different vehicles trundling up the drive. Not until they got closer could he see the actual shapes of the vehicles behind the lights. The one in the lead was a dull reddish-yellowish tan; the one behind it was jet black. Surprisingly, the black one was easier to pick out than the tan.

            “That was fast,” Bruce commented.

            Barton turned for the door, beckoning for Bruce to follow him. “Well, they’re worried about Fitz. Simmons especially,” he explained. “And…I guess they really want those names Tony ran down for them. Like I said, with this team, ‘this afternoon’ could have meant any time.”

            He stopped on the third floor and opened the door to Fitz’s room. “Hey, kid, they’re on their way up the drive.”

            Fitz had been sitting on his bed with a book. He brightened up considerably at Barton’s words. “That’s great! How long do you think they’ll stay this time?”

            “I can’t guess there, but hopefully a good while.” Barton smiled. “I’ll send Simmons up as soon as she gets in.”

            “Thanks.”

            Barton started for the stairs, glancing up. “J.A.R.V.I.S., let Tony know that the team is pulling in, would you?”

            “Absolutely, sir,” the A.I.’s cultured voice replied.

            “I’m really kind of looking forward to meeting this team,” Bruce admitted as they descended the stairs. “From what Fitz said about them, they seem pretty awesome. I bet Fury approved of them.”

            “Fury put the team together,” Barton told him.

            “Oh. Well then.”

            As Barton reached the bottom floor, Bruce still a couple of stairs above him, a door off to one side opened and two young women came in. Bruce estimated that both of them were about Fitz’s age. The slightly older of the two caught sight of Barton. “How’s Fitz?” she asked breathlessly.

            “Hello to you, too, Agent Simmons,” Barton said wryly. “He’s awake and waiting for you to come up and see him.”

            The young woman—presumably Simmons—blushed. “Sorry. Hello, Barton.”

            Barton turned to Bruce. “This is Agent Jemma Simmons, and this is Agent Skye. Ladies, meet Dr. Bruce Banner.”

            Both women’s eyes widened. Simmons was the first to speak. “Oh, Dr. Banner! I’m a _huge_ fan of your work. Your paper on the effect of gamma radiation on marigolds—”

            “I’m sorry, did you _actually_ do a _serious_ paper on the effects of gamma rays on man-in-the-moon marigolds?” Barton asked, laughing.

            Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “Honestly? It started off as a joke. You’re the first person to ever get it.”

            Simmons looked puzzled. “But—I thought it was—”

            “No, it was a real study,” Bruce explained. “But I picked the topic as a joke. _The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds_ was a play written in the mid-sixties, and Paul Newman made it into a movie in 1972. When I started studying gamma radiation, I mentioned the title as a joke, and my colleagues, who weren’t too up on literature or film, thought I meant it seriously. So I ran with it.”

            Skye started laughing. Simmons blushed scarlet. And then the door opened, admitting three more people. “What’s so funny?”

            “Just an inside joke,” Bruce said, smiling. His smile froze when he saw one of the people who had come in—a middle-aged man in a neat, quiet suit, with thinning brown hair. His face was thinner than the last time Bruce had seen it, his eyes a little more haunted, but he was nonetheless familiar.

            “Dr. Banner, good to see you again,” he said, smiling but looking a little nervous.

            Bruce counted backwards from thirty before he trusted himself to speak again. “Agent Coulson?”

            “Sorry for the shock,” Coulson said apologetically. “It’s just…no one was supposed to know. It doesn’t matter so much now, and if I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have told them to say something in advance…”

            “We figured you wanted to be the one to say something,” Barton said.

            “Well, yeah, for the most part.” Coulson’s expression softened as he met Barton’s eyes, and he smiled. “Hey.”

            “Hey.” Barton’s face lit up in a smile as well.

            Bruce carefully let go of the banister, glad that he didn’t seem to have left finger-marks in it. “It’s, uh, yeah, it was a little bit of a shock, but…it’s good to see you, too.” His mind helpfully supplied all the bits of information he’d been given in the last day, and he blurted out, “If I’d known there was a chance you weren’t dead, I’d have realized you were who Fitz was talking about when he was describing the team to me yesterday.”

            Something in Coulson’s face changed again. “You’ve seen Fitz? How is he?”

            “For the most part, he’s doing fine,” Bruce assured him. “From what I could tell when I looked him over yesterday, everything is healing nicely.”

            “Excuse me.” Simmons edged around Barton and Bruce and headed up the stairs towards Fitz’s room.

            Coulson suddenly seemed to remember the other two people who had come in with him. “Oh…Dr. Banner, this is Agent Melinda May and Agent Antoine Triplett. May, Trip, this is Dr. Bruce Banner.”

            “Nice to meet you, Dr. Banner,” May said with a nod.

            “Likewise.” Bruce returned the nod.

            Stark came up the stairs from the basement at a bound, holding a folder in one hand. “Hey, guys, glad you could make it. I’ve got those names I promised you.”

            “Thanks,” Coulson said with a smile. “There wasn’t really a rush, though. If it’s all right with you, we figured we’d stay for a day or two.”

            “You know it’s all right with me, Phil. Stay as long as you like. As usual, you’re welcome to make that permanent.” Stark raised an eyebrow, then turned to Barton. “By the way—I got on a roll. I’m about halfway done with the first one. Might even have both done by tomorrow morning.”

            Barton looked surprised. “That was fast.”

            “Both what?” Coulson asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

            “Hearing aids. It was a lot worse than I thought,” Barton admitted.

            “How bad?” Coulson took a couple of steps closer to Barton.

            Barton glanced up at Bruce, who supplied, “Fifty percent loss in the right ear, seventy-two percent in the left.”

            “Clint!” Coulson exclaimed.

            “I know, I know.” Barton held up both hands, palms outward.

            Stark handed the folder to Coulson. “Anyone for lunch? There’s a huge plate of cold-cuts in the fridge, sliced cheese, sliced veggies.”

            “Sounds good to me,” Trip said, glancing at Coulson, who nodded.

            Bruce followed the others towards the kitchen. He smiled, noticing as Coulson and Barton laced their fingers together. He also noticed that Skye was the last but him. Right before she went into the kitchen, Stark pulled her aside and spoke to her in a voice so low even Bruce couldn’t hear him. Her eyes widened as she listened, and then she nodded quickly. Whatever it was, it was obviously something she was agreeable to. Bruce decided it was probably better not to ask.

            Over the course of the simple lunch, Bruce found himself relaxed in the presence of the team. They were everything Fitz had described, and more. The other guy was completely dormant, and Bruce even laughed a few times at their jokes and stories.

            “How’s Ward?” Stark asked after a few minutes. “Still not talking?”

            “No—although now it’s his choice,” Coulson replied. He was still smiling slightly, but Bruce noticed that it had taken on a dark aspect. “Our medico verified that his larynx is completely healed.”

            Bruce frowned. “Wait. Ward? This is the Ward who…?” He gestured upwards.

            “The very same,” May confirmed. “He’s in custody. We’re trying to get him to tell us what he knows about HYDRA, but he’s not talking.”

            “He may not know much,” Barton pointed out. “I mean, I don’t know him, but from what you guys have said, I get the impression he was just a grunt.”

            “Well, he’s not in the upper echelons,” Coulson allowed. “But Garrett trusted him. He definitely knows more than he’s telling. We’ll get it out of him. Eventually.”

            Bruce felt queasy. It sounded like they were talking about torture. Then he thought about Fitz, what the young man had gone through, and he almost felt like Ward deserved whatever he got. “Then what?”

            Coulson looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

            May turned to Bruce. “In all seriousness, now that Simmons isn’t here—how is Fitz?”

            “You want the full run-down I gave him last night?” Bruce asked. May nodded. “He’s got some residual pain in his chest and muscles from the fall. There might be some bruising on the bone, there’s definitely some muscle damage, but it’s repairing itself. It’s not too serious. The rest of the soreness is mostly from his body having been starved for oxygen. And his—” He stopped, remembering that neither Barton nor Stark had known about Fitz’s legs. He didn’t want to worry anyone unnecessarily.

            “His what?” May prompted, her eyebrows meeting in a frown.

            Coulson looked at him seriously. “His legs?” he said quietly.

            Skye started, looking anxiously from Coulson to Bruce and back. “What’s wrong with his legs? Did he hurt them?”

            “No,” Bruce assured her. “Physically, they’re perfectly sound.” He hesitated, then admitted, “But…he can’t move them. No loss of sensation, but there’s not even a reflex twitch in them at the moment.”

            Coulson’s face went pale; his lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Skye let out a low gasp and Trip’s eyes widened. May’s frown deepened. “But you said they were perfectly sound.”

            “They are,” Bruce said. “It’s psychosomatic. He’ll recover, given time, but…as near as I can tell, the trauma of…of everything he’s gone through in the last couple of weeks is just shorting out something in his brain. Once he recovers from that, he’ll walk again. I’m almost completely sure of it.”

            “Any idea how long it’ll take?” Coulson was obviously trying to speak casually, but there was a flash of panic in his eyes.

            Bruce shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, I don’t have a clue. My guess—and it’s just that, a guess—is that it won’t be before his arm is out of that cast.”

            “So at least another—four weeks?”

            “Six. The bone that broke was one of the thicker ones, it’ll take a little longer to heal properly.”

            “How can you tell?” Skye asked curiously.

            “Huh? Oh.” Bruce smiled slightly. “The cast goes up above his elbow, which means the broken bone is in the arm itself, not the wrist.”

            “Oh.”

            “I don’t have x-ray vision, if that’s what you were asking.”

            “No, no, I wasn’t—” Skye blushed.

            Stark cracked up. Bruce couldn’t help but laugh, too. After a minute, all of them were laughing. Even Skye smiled sheepishly. It felt good, laughing like this. Bruce hadn’t laughed, really laughed, since the Battle of Manhattan, but now he was laughing so hard his sides hurt. And best of all, the other guy was laughing, too.

            At last, the laughter subsided. Coulson wiped the tears from his eyes and said, “Well, Dr. Banner, if you say he’ll be fine, that’s good enough for me.”

            Bruce didn’t know why his word carried such weight with Coulson, but he wasn’t going to question it. He liked and respected the man—a lot—and if it made him feel better to have Bruce tell him that things would be all right, well, he’d say it as often as he needed to. He decided not to mention the psychological aspect of it. The sort of betrayal Fitz had experienced was one he’d probably never get over.

            “Like I said, it’ll take time,” he said instead. “But there’s some truth to the old saw that time heals all wounds.”

            “Not much comfort in that, though,” Skye muttered.

            Trip nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. “Tell me about it. If only we could be sure that time wounded all heels.”

            Everyone burst out laughing again.

* * *

            For the second night in a row, Bruce slept peacefully and without dreams and awoke feeling rested and relaxed. The other guy obviously liked Stark’s house; there were no men with guns, no loud, startling noises, nothing to fear. And he seemed to trust Coulson’s team, too. Not that that was surprising. Bruce had met Nick Fury, Maria Hill, and Phil Coulson during his stint on the helicarrier, and the only one the other guy hadn’t been tense around had been Coulson. Anyone Coulson trusted, or cared about, the other guy would be fine with.

            He got up, got dressed, and glanced out the window. It was raining again, or still, steady and almost soothing. It wasn’t _storming,_ at least.

            Bruce smiled to himself. Maybe Thor was in a good mood.

            He stepped out into the hallway. As usual, Barton and Stark’s doors were closed, but Bruce noted that Fitz’s door was open slightly. He wondered about that. Obviously, the kid couldn’t get up and open or shut it himself, which meant that the last person to leave had left the door ajar. Had it been by accident or design?

            Curious, Bruce pushed the door open and poked his head in. Fitz was sitting up, his good hand folded across his broken one, staring out the window at the rain. He turned at the sound of the door. “Oh…good morning, Dr. Banner,” he said quietly.

            “Good morning, Agent Fitz,” Bruce said just as quietly, coming into the room. “I saw that your door was open. Is everything all right?”

            “Yeah. I just…” Fitz blushed and mumbled something, looking down at his hands.

            Bruce could have pressed him, but decided not to. “Mind if I come sit with you for a while?”

            Fitz gestured to the chair with his good hand. Bruce sat down, watching Fitz carefully. It was obvious the kid was having a low day. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was something else, but whatever it was, Bruce set himself to head it off. He waited patiently for a few minutes, knowing that Fitz would eventually speak.

            At last, the young man spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “It’s hard to breathe when it’s closed.”

            Bruce nodded slowly. Claustrophobia. He could understand that, especially after what had happened. “Have you talked about that with anyone?”

            “No. I—I just ask them to leave the door ajar. I think Stark thinks it’s in case I need something—so he can hear me, but…no one else has said anything about it. They just leave the door open a little.” Fitz looked up. “Even Simmons hasn’t asked.”

            “Fitz, I’m not a psychiatrist, but I know a little bit about people. She’s probably afraid to ask,” Bruce said gently. “Did you sleep with the door open before…everything that happened?”

            Slowly, Fitz shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Closed.”

            “Then she probably doesn’t want to ask why you suddenly need it open,” Bruce pointed out. “She probably guesses that it has to do with what happened. She doesn’t want to think about it any more than you do.”

            “That…that makes sense,” Fitz admitted. “When she comes to visit, we talk about everything else. The rebuild and how she’s getting on with the rest of the team and all that, and the sorts of things that go on here. We don’t talk about…about why I’m here. Why we _have_ to talk about this sort of thing. Or…would, if we were inclined to talk about it. Which we’re not.”

            Bruce nodded. He could understand _that,_ too. “I’m the same way. Used to be a lot worse, to be honest. My way of dealing with my problems was to just…bottle them up, not say anything, keep it all inside. Then something would happen to touch me off and I’d just…explode. And that was _before_ the incident at the lab.”

            Fitz sighed. “I just—I know it’s stupid. Just like I knew it was stupid to ask Jemma if she was HYDRA—I know she isn’t, that she’d never do that, but I had to hear her say it. But even though this room is at least four times bigger than the pod was, I…I hate feeling trapped. And since I can’t move, I can’t—” He broke off, swallowing hard.

            “To be honest, I have to sleep with the curtains drawn or the door open, too,” Bruce admitted. “The other guy doesn’t like small, enclosed spaces either. Neither do I, come to think of it.”

            “When you say the ‘other guy’ doesn’t like it…what do you mean?” Fitz asked. “I mean—I guess I know who the ‘other guy’ is, but…when he doesn’t like something, what happens?”

            “He tries to take over,” Bruce answered. “And if I’m caught off-guard enough, he usually succeeds. I’m better at controlling him than I used to be, and I can change at will, but when something upsets or startles him, he comes out on his own and I can’t handle him. Small spaces, loud noises, running, guys with guns, people sneaking up on him…that kind of thing.”

            “Bit like a werewolf, then? Where you can handle it when it’s a voluntary change, but not when it’s involuntary?”

            Bruce felt a small half-smile tug at his lips. “I swear, I must be the only person in the world who never reads fiction. Barton told me yesterday it was an escape from reality. Guess I never needed that.”

            Fitz nodded. “Jemma reads a bit, but…I read more than she does. The thing is, I—I practically grew up in labs. My dad had me taking apart computers before I could walk, and Mum taught me how to do code before she taught me how to write. Everything was about science and technology and…I don’t know. I think that’s why I read so much fantasy. I used to go to the library and read all these fantastic stories about people who didn’t _have_ technology, who used magic instead.”

            “If it helped you, why not?”

            “It’s just…I’ve never told Jemma, but I still read that sort of thing.”

            “Fantasy?”

            “Children’s books.”

            Bruce shrugged. “So what? I knew an absolutely brilliant woman once—Betty Ross, daughter of the general, one of the bravest and most intelligent women I’ve ever met in my life. She had every Nancy Drew book ever written, and re-read them all the time.”

            “I preferred the Hardy Boys.” Fitz managed the ghost of a smile.

            Bruce smiled back. “You know, I bet Stark’s got books squirreled away. Or I could run to the library for you. Make a list of what you want and I’ll see what I can do.”

            “I’d—I’d appreciate that.” Fitz hesitated. “Dr. Banner?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Why are you—why are you doing this?”

            Bruce debated how to answer—how much information to give. Finally, he decided on complete honesty. “Because I like you. I consider you as much of a friend as I do Stark, even though I’ve only just met you. And because I’ve been where you are. I’ve been lonely and desolate.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I don’t want you to get to the point I did, where it seems like the only way out is a bullet or an overdose.”

            Fitz’s eyes widened. “You…you thought about committing suicide?”

            “I did more than think about it, kid. Before Manhattan, when I thought I was just a monster—when I was still having trouble controlling myself—I got so low one night that I put a bullet in my mouth.” Bruce ran a hand through his graying curls. “The other guy spit it out. I don’t think I _can_ be killed.”

            “Were you—had you changed into the other guy when you—?” Fitz fumbled over his words.

            Bruce understood. “No. I think the sound of the shot startled him into coming out…or maybe it was the pain. I don’t know. But it wasn’t a conscious change.”

            “And you said…he doesn’t like…” Fitz’s brow furrowed momentarily, then cleared. “Oh. I understand.”

            “Understand what?” Bruce asked, puzzled.

            Fitz looked up. “The things you said the other guy doesn’t like…they’re dangerous to you, aren’t they? Men with guns, they’re probably going to shoot at you. Small, confined spaces, you’re trapped and can’t get out. Running, someone’s probably chasing you…loud noises mean danger…people sneaking up on you could mean they’re trying to attack you from behind. You can’t defend yourself against any of those things. You’re just…you’re an ordinary human being. No healing factors, no supernatural strength or anything like that. If you’re in those situations, you’re likely to get hurt, maybe even die. But the other guy—he’s there to protect you from those things. He comes out when he thinks you’re in danger. Like a guardian angel. Or a watch dog.” He blushed, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know—I’m babbling, I’m sorry.”

            Bruce stared at Fitz. He’d never thought of it like that. He’d always thought of it as a curse—never as a blessing. But Fitz was right. The other guy came out, and Bruce couldn’t control him, whenever he was in danger. He was primal instinct, he was fear and rage—but he was also a cushion against the world, a way to protect himself until he was safe and able to handle the situation again.

            Leave it to a complete outsider to help him understand himself a little better.

            “Hey, Fitz,” Bruce said. The kid looked up again. “You know, there’s really no reason you have to stay in bed. You’re healed enough that you can move around. If we can figure out the mobility issue, you can go wherever you like—and I’m sure Stark has a wheelchair, or at least a chair on wheels, _somewhere_ in this piece of modern art he calls a house.”

            “I’d like that,” Fitz said. “But…how would I get off this floor? I—I couldn’t take a wheelchair down the stairs.”

            “There’s an elevator at the end of the hall.”

            Fitz paled. “I—I don’t know if I can do that.”

            Bruce smiled gently. “How about we see if we can fight our claustrophobia together?”

            Fitz stared at Bruce for a long minute, then managed a smile. “Okay. If—if you’re sure. I’d like that.”

            “All right then. Want to get dressed first?”

            “N-no, I don’t think so.”

            Bruce nodded, turning back the covers. “Ready?”

            Fitz swallowed, then nodded. “Ready.”

            It took a little bit of maneuvering, but Bruce managed to pick Fitz up in a modified bridal carry. Fitz looped his good arm around Bruce’s neck, holding his cast close to his chest. Bruce took a deep breath and carried Fitz out of the room.

            As they passed the stairs, Skye’s voice floated up the well. “Hey, where are you going?”

            Bruce paused, thinking she was talking to him and wondering how she could see him around the bend. However, Simmons’ voice answered. “I just thought I’d go check on him before breakfast.”

            “Simmons, c’mon. If he’s asleep, he needs his rest, and if he’s awake, you’ll end up sitting there for two hours talking to him. You know you’re supposed to eat something first. Come on, he’ll understand you not going up the minute you get out of bed.”

            “Skye—”

            “Simmons, you don’t want DC yelling at you again. Come _on._ At least come down and make up a tray. Maybe he won’t be so upset if you take up breakfast for both of you. He’s got to eat, too, right?”

            “Well—all right,” Simmons said, sounding reluctant.

            “Come on, you two.” May’s voice added to the mix. “We’ll be here at least another day, if I know Coulson. You’ll have plenty of time.”

            Fitz and Bruce exchanged looks as they kept moving. Bruce was pleased to see that Fitz was almost smiling again.

            The elevator doors opened as they approached. Fitz’s arm tightened slightly around Bruce’s neck as the doors closed, but he said nothing. Bruce breathed deeply for a moment before turning to the buttons. At that point, he realized they had a problem. Both his hands were full, and Fitz only had one good arm, which was also full.

            “I’d push it with my toe,” Fitz said nervously, obviously having come to the same realization. “But I can’t move my legs…”

            Bruce glanced up. “J.A.R.V.I.S.? Can you give us a hand here?”

            “Certainly, sir,” the pleasant voice of the AI replied. “Which floor would you like?”

            “The first, please.”

            “One moment.”

            Bruce could feel the other guy stirring uneasily. Remembering what Fitz had said, he took a deep breath and chanted in his head, _I’m safe. It’s okay. The elevator will not trap me. I am not in danger. I’m safe._

            The elevator moved smoothly, then gave a pleasant _ding_ , the doors rolling back. “First floor.”

            “Thanks, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Bruce said, stepping out.

            “My pleasure, sir.”

            Fitz exhaled. “We did it,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

            Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “We did.”

            Carefully, he made his way across the floor. He could hear voices from the kitchen, a little laughter, and the clatter of dishes. For a moment, he debated the best way to make an entrance, then decided for casual.

            He squared his shoulders, threw his head high, and walked into the kitchen. “Morning, everyone. Got room for two more at the table?”

            Simmons let out a shriek of surprise, almost dropping her coffee cup. Coulson’s eyes widened, then a grin split his face. “Good to see you up and about, Fitz.”

            “Good to be up, sir,” Fitz said. Bruce could hear the smile in his voice.

            Trip jumped up and pulled out a chair. Bruce set Fitz into it carefully, then headed over to the coffee pot to get himself a cup. Stark was standing next to it, grinning from ear to ear.

            “Nice effect,” he said in a low voice, indicating where the team was clustering around Fitz, all of them smiling, obviously pleased to see him. Simmons, especially, was flitting around. Even Barton was standing on the edge of the group, beaming as he put together a plate and set it in front of the young man.

            “No reason he couldn’t get up,” Bruce replied softly. “He needs a chair or something, though. He’s heavier than he looks.”

            “I’ve actually got one down in the lab. Matter of fact, hold down the fort here, would you? I’ll be right back.” Stark set down his cup and vanished.

            Barton came over and handed Bruce a plate. “You sure he’s okay to be up?” he asked in a low voice.

            Bruce nodded, turning to make sure he was facing Barton so the man could read his lips if necessary. “Yeah. Except for his arm, some soreness in his muscles, and him not walking, physically he’s just fine. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing internal or anything.”

            Barton relaxed. “Thank God. I was…I don’t mind admitting that I was seriously worried.”

            Bruce nodded, turning to watch the team chatting with Fitz. The young man’s eyes were brighter than they had been, he was sitting a little more erect, and he looked a lot more relaxed and… _human_ than he had up in the room.

            “I didn’t realize I was worried,” he said quietly. “But I guess I was. I think being down here will help him, too.”

            Simmons, too, looked almost radiant as she sat next to Fitz. “If I’d known you were going to come down this morning…”

            “Well, I didn’t even know I’d be coming down,” Fitz replied.

            “But you did, and I’m ecstatic to see you.” Simmons smiled.

            Fitz blushed. Bruce grinned. Nobody had specifically told him how they felt about each other, but it was obvious that Fitz and Simmons thought a lot of each other. They made an adorable couple.

            “Look out! Gangway!” Stark came back in, pushing a comfortable-looking wheelchair and holding a small case. He parked it neatly alongside Fitz and bowed theatrically. “Your chariot, _monsieur._ ”

            “Thanks,” Fitz said, smiling.

            Simmons got on one side of him, Skye on the other, and the two girls maneuvered him into the wheelchair. “There,” Simmons said, smiling fondly. “It suits you.”

            Stark grinned, then turned to Barton. With a theatrical bow, he presented the case, holding it flat on his palms like a tray. “And this is for you.”

            Barton took it cautiously. “This isn’t gonna explode in my face, is it?”

            “It shouldn’t.”

            Coulson moved a little closer to Barton as he flicked open the latches, then flipped back the lid. Cradled on black cushioning were two small devices, one red, one blue. They looked like golf tees with small wings at small intervals along the shaft. Barton gingerly picked up the red one. “I assume these are different?”

            “Red is the left ear, blue is the right,” Stark answered. “They can be removed fairly easily if necessary—they’re not exactly magnetic, but I developed a device that can fish them out if you need to. But they’re designed to be permanent and perpetual. They can be retuned, too, if your hearing changes. The _really_ cool thing about it—well, put them in and you’ll see.”

            Barton carefully slid the device into his left ear. He blinked, astonished. “Wow…I didn’t realize how much I was missing.”

            “You’ll be particularly impressed when you put in the other one.” Stark grinned. “But—Phil, take a look.”

            Coulson looked in Barton’s left ear. His eyes widened in surprise. “What—good God, Stark, how deep did it _go?_ ”

            “Not as deep as you think. It’s changed color to match his skin tone.” Stark looked proud of himself. “The other one ought to do the same. I told you nobody would notice they were there.”

            “Do I wanna know what powers these things?” Barton asked, sliding the other one into his right ear.

            “It’s not radioactive.”

            “I’m not sure that’s a comfort.”

            “You have my word, Clint,” Stark said, his voice quiet but utterly serious. “They’re not dangerous.”

            A slow smile spread across Barton’s face, his eyes lighting up in almost the same way they had when he’d seen Coulson. “Your word’s more than good enough for me, Tony.”

            For the first time, Bruce found himself wondering how old Barton actually was. When he’d first arrived, he’d assumed that Barton was a little older than he himself was. Certainly the man seemed like someone in his fifties, and not just because of his hearing difficulties; the lines around his eyes, the tired slope to his shoulders, all spoke of a man on the far side of middle age. But with the smile on his face, the light in his eyes, and above all the way he leaned into Coulson, utterly content, made him look no more than thirty.

            Then again, Bruce thought, smiling again, love could do that to a man.

* * *

            The rain let up a little after lunch. Barton and Coulson elected to go for a walk on the beach; Bruce couldn’t help but grin as he watched them stroll down the shoreline with their arms wrapped around one another’s waists. May, Skye, and Trip went down to the gym in the basement for sparring practice. Simmons and Fitz joined Bruce and Stark in the lab to, as Stark put it, see what trouble they could get into.

            “I want to show you what I’ve been working on,” Stark said to Fitz, fussing around as he moved some wires and bolts out of his way. “I mean, I want to show all of you, but especially you. I’ve—actually, I’ve been working on a lot of things. Clint’s hearing aids, and the hearing test booth. And I redid Wilson’s wings for him. Lots of little projects. But this—this is the big one.”

            Bruce was amused by Stark’s enthusiasm. The man was like a kid with a new toy, bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation. Simmons pushed Fitz’s chair and looked up at Bruce with an expression that mirrored only too well how he himself felt. Fitz, however, looked keenly interested. Clearly, Barton’s comparison of the team to the Avengers was not that farfetched.

            Stark led them to an area in the back of the lab that had a kind of screen in front of it. He pressed a button, then stood back as the screen parted, revealing…

            “You’re building another suit?” Bruce asked, remembering when the man had destroyed all the ones he’d built up to that point.

            “Nope,” Stark said proudly. “Well, I mean, yeah, I am—I have one almost finished. But this isn’t gonna be a suit.”

            “It’s a robot,” Fitz said, his eyes lighting up.

            “Give that man a cigar.” Stark beamed.

            “A robot?” Bruce repeated. “Like Dum-E?”

            “Okay, maybe ‘robot’ isn’t exactly the right word. He’s an android. Well, almost. Kind of. Sort of in between a robot and an android.” Stark patted the head, the only part that was really completed. It was shaped roughly like the helmet on one of the Iron Man suits, but was larger, slightly more angular, and looked incredibly solid. “See, androids are meant to pass for human. He can’t, but he’s a lot more intelligent than Dum-E was—probably more intelligent than anything I’ve ever created except J.A.R.V.I.S.”

            “I appreciate the compliment, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said.

            “So he’s got artificial intelligence?” Fitz asked. He actually wheeled himself closer to examine the head, obviously startling Simmons.

            “Well—he will when I’m done. Right now I’m just getting started. But he’s crammed full of brains.”

            “What are you going to call him?” Bruce asked dryly. “The Scarecrow?”

            “Would that make me the Tin Woodsman or the Wizard?” Stark handed the head to Fitz. “I’m still kicking around ideas for his name. I mean, he’s obviously not finished yet. Not anywhere _near_ finished yet. A name will…emerge.”

            Fitz turned the head over in his hands. “It’s fascinating. Look, Jemma, the light receptors here on the front—they’ll dilate and contract to let in different amounts of light, the way the pupils of the eye do.” He ran his fingers over something—presumably the receptors—and then looked up at Stark. “Infrared?”

            Stark nodded. “And ultraviolet. This baby can see almost the _entire_ spectrum of light, not just the visible spectrum. Invisibility won’t stop him from seeing you—as long as you give off some kind of heat signature, he can find you. In theory, anyway. Obviously I haven’t had a chance to test it yet.”

            “Is he going to have the same sort of body construction as your suits?”

            “That’s the plan. Only slightly larger, to accommodate sturdier internal framework and carry a heavier load.”

            “Weaponry?”

            “Hopefully not, but I might add them later if it becomes necessary.”

            Fitz turned the head over, carefully opening a panel in the back. Simmons leaned over, then straightened up and looked at Bruce. She shrugged, obviously mystified. Bruce couldn’t blame her. Technology wasn’t his strong suit; he looked in and saw nothing but a tangle of wires and circuits.

            Fitz, however, obviously saw something more. “My God. You’ve actually put an artificial brain in here. You—you could probably put this in someone’s _head_ and have them function normally.”

            Stark chuckled. “Only if they’ve got a reinforced skull. And could be kept alive long enough for the transplant. Which, okay, I guess it’s possible, but…”

            Simmons turned white as a sheet. She took a step back. Bruce touched her shoulder lightly and jerked his head upwards. The two stole away up the stairs, leaving Fitz and Stark talking shop over the robotic head.

            “That’s…that’s horrifying,” Simmons said under her breath as they reached the kitchen. “Artificial intelligence is one thing, but a whole artificial _brain?_ ”

            “I’d like to think he was just talking about…you know, the control center,” Bruce said slowly. “Robots have to have ‘brains’ to function. Something has to give them instructions on how to move, how to interact with the world around them. They have to have ways of receiving commands, interpreting them, and performing them…”

            “Dr. Banner, I know Fitz. I’ve known him since we were eighteen and started at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy. If he says it’s an artificial brain—one that could replace a _human_ brain—that’s exactly what it is.” Simmons gripped the edge of the counter. She was trembling. “My God, do they realize what they’re _doing?_ ”

            Bruce grabbed two coffee mugs. Fortunately the pot was still about half-full of hot coffee. He poured, then pushed one of the mugs into Simmons’ hands. “Playing God. I know what you’re thinking. Artificial intelligence is one thing when it’s in a computer, or a fairly restricted environment—like J.A.R.V.I.S. He’s a great help, and I know he does a lot to keep Stark in check.”

            “I do my best, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said.

            Bruce glanced up at the ceiling with a smile, then turned back to Simmons. “But the thing is, that robot down there—Stark is creating an AI that can go where it wants, _do_ what it wants. He had the ability to pilot his suits without being inside of them, but the point is that _he_ was in command of them—they weren’t thinking and acting on their own. He’s basically creating an artificial human.”

            “He’s bringing a child into the world,” Simmons said, taking a long draught of her coffee. “But not just _any_ child, not a child that has to learn and grow. He’s bringing a child into the world that’s already as intelligent as an adult. It won’t _want_ to learn.”

            “You don’t know that,” Bruce said, playing devil’s advocate.

            Simmons exhaled. “You’re right. I don’t. But…you know Stark better than I do, sir. Do you think—would he put in the appropriate safeguards? Some variation on the Asimov principle?”

            Bruce hesitated. “I—I don’t know him _that_ well, Simmons. J.A.R.V.I.S.? What do you think?”

            There was a long pause. Bruce and Simmons looked at one another. He saw on her face a reflection of his own thoughts. The pause was telling. Stark wouldn’t put in safeguards. He would try to make his creation as human as possible—including the ability to make its own decisions, regardless of the consequences.

            “I will make the suggestion to him,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said at last. “When the occasion arises. However, he may also need to hear it from you.”

            “I’ll keep it in mind,” Bruce said quietly.

             He heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see May, Skye, and Trip come up, all flushed and slightly disheveled but laughing. Skye nudged Simmons to one side. “Here, ‘scuse me, I promised I’d make lunch today.”

            “Do you know how to cook?” Simmons asked, moving out of the way.

            “I lived alone in a van for a year. You think I spent that whole time eating at restaurants?” Skye opened the refrigerator. “Where is everyone?”

            “Coulson and Barton are still on their walk, as far as I know,” Bruce said, tucking himself into a corner to watch Skye work. “Fitz and Stark are in the lab.”

            May smirked. “Those two are peas in a pod, I swear. One of these days Fitz is going to install an AI on the Bus.”

            “I should be glad to give him advice on the matter,” J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in helpfully.

            “I was being sarcastic,” May said as Trip tried to cover up his laughter with a cough.

            Skye, it turned out, was quite an accomplished cook. Stark and Fitz came into the kitchen just as she was turning her offering out of the skillet. “That smells amazing. What are they?”

            “Pirogues. I used to buy them pre-made, but I learned how to make them one afternoon last summer when I was bored out of my skull.” Skye heaped the little dumpling-like pockets onto a plate.

            Stark pushed Fitz up to the table, then started pulling plates out of the cupboard. “Where are Clint and Phil?”

            “Still on their walk,” Simmons answered, reaching for the silverware drawer.

            Stark whirled around, eyebrows knotted together in concern. “In _that?”_

            Bruce glanced out the window. He hadn’t even noticed that it had started raining again, but it was pouring buckets, visibility practically nil. “Holy Jesus Christ. Does it _ever_ stop raining for more than a couple of hours around here?”

            “Not lately.” Stark looked anxiously out the window. “Did anybody see which way they went?”

            “North,” May answered. “I’m sure they’re fine, Stark. They were probably just so wrapped up in each other they didn’t notice the weather changing and got caught in the storm.”

            “Yeah.” Stark brought the plates over to the table, but Bruce noticed that he wasn’t his usual jovial self.

            They set aside two plates for Barton and Coulson, then set to enjoying themselves. At least, most of them did, at first. Stark kept shooting anxious glances at the door. After a moment, Fitz started to look worried, too. By the time they had finished their meals—the extra plates starting to cool and look less than appetizing—even Bruce was concerned.

            May stood abruptly. “I’m going to look for them.”

            “I’m going with you,” Bruce said, getting to his feet as well.

            Trip started to push his chair back, but May shook her head. “No. You stay here. We shouldn’t be long.”

            “Take B.E.C.K.A.,” Stark said. “Just in case.”

            He didn’t say in case of what. He didn’t need to. Bruce nodded and followed May out the door.

            B.E.C.K.A. turned out to be the dun-colored SUV that had come in earlier. Bruce buckled himself into the front passenger seat as May started the car and drove off in the direction Coulson and Barton had gone. She said nothing, but the way she gripped the steering wheel and the speed she drove spoke volumes.

            Bruce squinted anxiously at the surrounding area as they drove. He was searching for anything—two dripping-wet men running hell-bent for leather towards the house, a pair of lovers canoodling, a couple walking oblivious to the weather…

            “I shouldn’t have left it so long.” May’s voice broke abruptly into Bruce’s thoughts.

            “You’re not the only one who thought they’d be fine,” Bruce said quietly without taking his eyes from the surrounding area.

            “They could still _be_ fine,” May said, her tone of voice suggesting that she was trying to convince herself as much as Bruce. “They probably just got caught in the storm…they’re probably soaked and chilled to the bone. I just—shouldn’t have left it this long. They’re going to get pneumonia.”

            Bruce knew that pneumonia was the least of their worries, but he said nothing. As long as they held onto the belief that it wasn’t anything worse than that…

            “Stop the car,” he said suddenly.

            May slammed on the brakes. The car spun sideways before coming to a halt facing the ocean. Bruce had his seatbelt off and was half out of the car before May had even cut the motor. She was out an instant later, and he knew she had seen what he did—a cluster of dark-clad men, silhouetted in the rain, attacking another, who lay on the ground.

            Bruce had exactly one weapon at his disposal. He’d said, more than two years before, that he was always angry, but right now, he was angrier than usual. He was _furious._ And yet that rage would not be his master. He was in complete control.

            _Okay, big guy,_ he thought as he started running. _Your turn._

            Two steps later, and Bruce Banner had disappeared, replaced with the other guy.

            The Incredible Hulk.

            Hulk made the earth shake and the sand ripple like the waves as he ran. He let loose with a primal roar, not because he had to, but to let them know that _he was coming,_ and that if they knew what was good for them, they would run for their miserable lives.

            They didn’t. They looked up, saw him coming, but they didn’t run. One of them actually _grinned._

            Hulk took him out first.

            One gigantic fist swung, caught the grinning fool under the chin. The surprise in his eyes was only visible for a moment as he went somersaulting backwards into the ocean. Hulk hit the next one over the top of his head, sending him to the beach in a limp heap. That left four still standing, all of whom were starting to look less confident and more furious.

            One of them drew a gun, took a couple steps back, and fired directly into Hulk’s broad green chest. Hulk roared, this time in pain, and charged the man. The man kept firing, rather pointlessly, but Hulk kept running. He grabbed the man’s arm _and_ the gun in one big meaty fist, whirled him over his head, and threw him out to sea. The man gave a very good demonstration of the Doppler effect, cut off abruptly with a faint _splash._

            Hulk grabbed the next two and banged their heads together. This was almost _too_ easy. Hulk had no problem with that, but Bruce had enough control to urge the green guy to caution.

            “Freeze, or he dies!”

            Hulk whirled around, a snarl on his face. The remaining man had a gun as well, a shiny silver thing. In his other hand, he held a stocky man by the collar, the gun pressed to his temple. _Hawkeye,_ Hulk thought, balling up his fists.

            _Barton,_ Bruce supplied.

            _Same thing._

            The man smirked. “Now then. You’re going to come with me, nice and slow. And if you make any sudden moves, I’m going to—”

            What he intended to do, Hulk never knew, because suddenly a lithe, black-clad figure hit him from behind with a shapely foot to the back of the head. The man dropped Hawkeye—Barton—in shock and fired wildly with the gun. Before Hulk could move, May disarmed the man, kicked him in the backs of both knees, the groin, and the stomach, then grabbed the front of his shirt and delivered a swift, sharp punch between his eyes. The man dropped like a ton of bricks.

            “Nice,” Hulk grunted.

            May nodded once in acknowledgement, then knelt next to Barton, supporting his head. “Barton. Barton, can you hear me?”

            The man groaned. He had a dazed expression on his face, and blood was running into his eyes. “Phil,” he said hoarsely. “Phil—they took—”

            Hulk glanced north along the shoreline. Distantly, he could just see shapes—figures. He could catch up if he ran…

            Turning back to May, he snapped in his deep, rumbling voice, “Take him back to the house! I’ll find Coulson!”

            May looked up, startled. “But what about—?” she began.

            “I’ll be fine. We’ll be back soon. Go!”

            May nodded again, hauling Barton upwards. Hulk didn’t wait to see if she would follow his instructions or not. Instead, he began pounding along the beach, tearing through the storm and the rain towards the shapes he had glimpsed in the distance.

            Coulson may have been middle-aged, and fully human, but he was giving a good account of himself when Hulk reached him. One man lay stunned on the ground, another injured. But there were four more men, and it was plain to see that Coulson was tiring badly. In a minute he would be overwhelmed.

            In thundered Hulk, like a whirlwind of green rage. He yanked the first man off of Coulson, throwing him into the second and knocking both of them over. With Bruce directing the action to keep Coulson from getting caught in the crossfire, Hulk dispatched of all four of the men in short order.

            Within moments, it was all over. Hulk gave one last punch to a man who had groaned and tried to get up, then turned to Coulson. The man’s eyes were enormous, his jaw hanging open, and he was breathing heavily. He had a cut on his cheek and was cradling his right hand with his left, but he seemed relatively intact.

            “Are you all right?” Hulk grunted, just to be sure.

            Coulson shook his head, then nodded, then closed his mouth and swallowed. “Clint—is he—they separated us, I couldn’t—”

            “May took him back to Stark’s house,” Hulk said shortly. One of the men started crawling across the sand; Hulk brought his foot down heavily on his back, and he stopped moving. “Come on.”

            Coulson took a step forward, then staggered slightly. However, Hulk hadn’t meant for him to walk. He had no idea how far they were from the house, but he knew Coulson couldn’t make the walk easily, not in his current condition. Besides that, it was pouring buckets—the man needed to get warm and dry—and on top of that, there was no guarantee that the people who had attacked Barton and Coulson didn’t have friends who would be turning up any minute.

            Hulk scooped Coulson up in one arm as easily as a gorilla would a baby, then took off running back towards the house.

            Coulson looked a little shell-shocked as he clung desperately to Hulk’s shoulder. Hulk ran as hard as he could, heedless of the wind or the rain. He trod on the body of one of the men from the first group as he passed the site of the battle, but he ignored them, too. In his head, however, Bruce was uneasy.

            _They’re dead,_ the scientist’s voice whispered. _You killed them…_

            Hulk grunted. _Deserved it. Hurt Coulson. Hurt Hawkeye._

            _Nobody deserves death, big guy. That’s not our decision to make._

_No time to think. Just reacted. Did what I had to._

            Bruce had no answer for that.

            The lights of the house were welcoming. Hulk skidded to a halt on the patio, set Coulson down, nudging him towards the door, then willed himself to change back. A moment later, Bruce followed Coulson to the door, breathing a little heavily and clutching the torn and tattered remains of his pants about his nether regions.

            The door swung open as Coulson approached it, Bruce on his heels. They stumbled into the living room, where the entirety of Coulson’s team was waiting for them. Simmons was attempting to tape up a cut on Barton’s forehead, but the second he saw Coulson, he pushed her aside and leaped to his feet. “Phil,” he gasped.

            Coulson said nothing, never broke stride. Barton crossed the room practically without his feet touching the floor and threw his arms around Coulson’s neck. Coulson clung to Barton tightly, one hand behind the man’s head, the other against his back, pressing them together as though they could merge into one being.

            Bruce tried to edge around the group. Stark silently handed him a plush, dark red bathrobe; Bruce nodded his thanks, turned so that he was facing away from the group—not that any of them were paying attention to him—and quickly got the robe on, tying it tightly in front. He picked up the shreds of his trousers and rejoined the group. None of them moved, none of them spoke; all of them were simply staring at Coulson and Barton as they held one another.

            Finally, Coulson pulled back just a little bit, opened his eyes and looked at the group. Barton turned to face the others as well, leaning heavily against Coulson, as though terrified to let him go. Coulson was pale and trembling slightly, his eyes wet, an expression somewhere between fear and despair on his features. He never said anything, just looked from face to face, slowly. None of them replied; Skye opened her mouth briefly, then closed it, shaking her head, her own eyes bright with tears. Stark put an arm around her shoulders, then rested his other hand on Fitz’s shoulder. The young man gripped it tightly with his good hand.

            May dropped her gaze briefly when Coulson’s eyes fell on her. Her jaw worked for a moment, then she looked up and turned to Bruce, her expression completely blank. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

            Bruce nodded. He’d taken a quick inventory. The other guy hadn’t sustained very much damage, and none of it had remained after he’d changed back. “I’m fine. The other guy’s pretty tough.” He turned to Coulson and Barton. Barton hadn’t let Simmons finish with the cut on his forehead, which was seeping again, and Coulson’s cheek was still bleeding. “You two, on the other hand, need some basic first aid at the very least.”

            Simmons picked up the first aid kit she’d been using as Barton and Coulson sat awkwardly down on the sofa, not letting go of one another. She resumed cleaning and taping the cut on Barton’s forehead while Bruce checked over Coulson’s fingers, remembering the way he’d cradled his hand.

            Stark glanced up briefly. “J.A.R.V.I.S., now that everybody’s in, initiate Protocol R-O-P.”

            Bruce didn’t have time to ask what R-O-P stood for before there was a loud _shhnk_ noise. All the glass windows immediately turned pitch-black, reflecting back into the living room. There was a very faint hum coming from them. A panel in the wall slid back, revealing a series of monitors that showed the entire exterior of the house.

            Fitz looked up at Stark. “R-O-P?”

            “Ridiculously Overly Paranoid,” Stark said quietly. “I…may have gone slightly overboard with the security features, or it may have seemed that way at the time. The windows were already bulletproof. Now they’re proofed against literally anything I could think of, up to and including nuclear devices, and harder than diamond, so you can’t cut through them, either. They’re tinted so heavily they can’t be seen through, by _anything—_ they even shield against infrared detection—and since they can’t be seen _out_ of, either, the security cameras are on ultra-sensitivity. That’s true for _all_ the windows, by the way, not just the ones down here. The exterior latches and doorknobs are all electrified. And J.A.R.V.I.S. sent a message to Pepper warning her of that, which means that any minute I’m gonna get a frantic phone call demanding to know what’s going on. But for the moment, we’re safe.”

            May looked intently at Coulson. “HYDRA?”

            Coulson didn’t flinch as Bruce cleaned out the cut on his cheek, even though it must have stung. “Yeah. I recognized a couple of them.”

            Bruce winced, remembering what he’d done. Coulson looked up quickly. “No, I—I don’t—you did what you had to,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Dr. Banner. I don’t think I remembered to say that before, but…thank you.”

            “Yeah, thanks,” Barton echoed. “To both of you. How’d you—”

            “We didn’t,” May interrupted. Her eyes were even darker than usual. “But you were out an awfully long time, and as hard as it was raining…” She shook her head. “I should’ve thought to go after you sooner.”

            “No. May, don’t,” Coulson said. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This wasn’t supposed to—” He broke off with a sneeze.

            “Towels,” Stark said, letting go of Skye’s shoulders. “And something hot to drink, for starters.”

            “I’ll get coffee.” Skye’s voice was shaky. She wiped her eyes and dashed off towards the kitchen. Stark took the stairs two at a time.

            Coulson leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes for a long moment. Barton said nothing, merely letting Simmons tape up the cut on his forehead. Bruce finished cleaning Coulson’s own cut, which had stopped bleeding—it wasn’t as bad as it had looked out in the rain.

            Quietly, he said, “What—exactly—happened?”

            It was Barton who answered, his voice barely audible over the storm raging at the windows. “We didn’t…exactly mean to walk as far as we did. But after a while, both of us needed a rest, so we sat down. That’s about when the rain started. We…we ignored it, we were watching the storm over the ocean…kinda pretty to look at, you know? Then we realized it was probably getting on towards lunchtime…we didn’t want you guys to get worried or anything, so we started back. We hadn’t got very far when…they came out of _nowhere._ ”

            Stark came downstairs with two big, fluffy towels and handed them to the two men. Barton broke off his narrative to towel himself off, so Coulson, opening his eyes, picked it up. “They knew us—and like I said, I recognized one or two of them. We were doing all right at first, even if they did have us surrounded…but then they managed to separate us slightly, and Clint got knocked down. I went to defend him and…guess I left my flank unguarded, because one of them jumped me. Next thing I knew I was getting dragged up the beach and he was still on the ground…” His voice broke.

            “Hey,” Barton said gently. He reached over and gripped Coulson’s hand tightly. “I’m okay, Phil. So are you. We’re both okay.”

            Coulson looked up at Barton, the expression on his face indescribable. Before he could say a word, however, a phone began ringing. Stark fished it out of his pocket, pain in his eyes, and turned it on. “Stark…oh, hey, Pepper. Yeah, no, I’m—I’m okay…yes, I know, Pepper…no, the monitors are all clear…yeah, everyone is accounted for. Banner’s here…no, I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet…no. Absolutely not. Not over the phone…yeah, the next time I see you.”

            Whatever Pepper said next made Stark hesitate. Bruce frowned slightly, wondering what was going on. Finally, Stark replied, “Four days. You have my word…I’m not sure, but I’ll let you know when I am…I seriously doubt it, but I’ll ask.” He smiled. “Yeah, I love you, too, Pepper. Stay safe, okay? I’ll see you then. ‘Bye.” With that, he disconnected the phone call.

            “We can’t stay,” Coulson said softly. “ _I_ can’t stay. It was pretty obvious that it was me they wanted back there. As long as I’m here, you’re in danger…”

            “I should probably go, too,” Bruce said slowly. “Bringing out…the other guy… I’ve probably drawn unnecessary attention to the place.”

            “Bullshit,” Stark said, his eyes flashing with something very close to anger. “Both of you. For God’s sake, everyone in the goddamned _world_ probably knows I’m here. This place isn’t exactly _subtle._ Maybe you’ve accidentally let people know that I’m not the only person living here, but I’m willing to bet that a dozen HYDRA agents didn’t just _happen_ to turn up and come across you two.”

            “So I should leave,” Coulson pointed out. “They want me.”

            Bruce raised an eyebrow at Barton. “You want to tell him, or should I?”

            Coulson started and turned to look at Barton, his expression worried bordering on panic. “Tell me what?”

            Barton hesitated, glancing around at the others—especially at Skye, who was standing just on the periphery with two steaming cups of coffee. Finally, he said quietly, “Banner and I were talking yesterday, and…he pointed out that I’ve been taken prisoner a somewhat disproportionate amount of times, for a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent as…relatively unimportant as I am.”

            “You’re not—” Coulson began angrily, then stopped. All the color drained out of his face, and he stared at Barton in shock. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

            Skye set down the coffee sharply on the table, making both men—and Bruce—jump. “You were _bait?_ ” she demanded incredulously.

            “Wait a minute, _wait_ a minute,” Trip interjected, holding up both hands. “That’s—that just doesn’t make sense. Extraction plans change with every mission, _specifically_ so things like that don’t happen. It’s always been S.H.I.E.L.D. policy. Different people, different strategies…”

            Coulson and Barton looked at him, then looked at each other. Bruce bit his tongue, remembering what Barton had said the day before…but it was Fitz who spoke up, incredibly softly. “You never went in with an extraction plan, though.”

            “Fitz!” Simmons gasped.

            Barton shook his head. “No…he’s right.”

            Coulson turned to look at Fitz. “How did you know that?”

            “After…after Operation Overkill.” Fitz’s voice shook badly on those words. “Agent Hand mentioned it…”

            Bruce had no idea what Operation Overkill was, or who Agent Hand was, but from the look on Coulson’s face, he decided not to mention it. Actually, he was going to keep out of this one altogether at this point. Coulson’s entire team was looking rather fragile—even May, who was giving a pathetic attempt at being a brick wall, silent and impassive. Bruce could see, though, that the lightest touch would send her crumbling to the ground.

            Skye pushed one of the coffee cups into Coulson’s hands, then gave the other to Barton. Bruce watched them for a minute. Coulson’s teeth were chattering and Barton’s hands were shaking badly. Somehow, Bruce didn’t think that had to do with them being cold. Necessarily.

            On the other hand…

            “I think you both need a long, hot shower,” Bruce prompted gently. “And a change of clothes.”

            “Yeah, that—that’s probably a good idea.” Coulson’s voice was still soft. He set down the half-empty coffee cup and got to his feet. He staggered slightly, but Bruce didn’t jump up to help him and he held out a hand to stop Stark from rushing to his aid; he understood that the man needed to do this himself.

            Barton managed to get to his feet, too. The two men headed for the elevator—not the stairs, Bruce noticed—clutching one another’s hands tightly. Nobody else said a word as the doors slid shut behind them and the arch over the door lit up.

            Skye finally broke the silence, collapsing heavily into a chair. “I don’t think we’ll be hearing from _them_ for the better part of the rest of the evening.”

             “Do you blame them?” Trip sat down, too.

            Bruce noticed that, consciously or unconsciously, they had all drawn very close together, making a small, tight circle. Stark glanced up. “Agent May, have a seat. Nobody’s getting in here without my say-so, not tonight.”

            May sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair between Skye and Bruce. She turned to look at him, her dark eyes troubled. “How many more were there?”

            “I counted six,” Bruce answered.

            “Plus the six that were—makes it a round dozen.” May frowned. “Seems like overkill to me. Twelve soldiers to capture one man?”

            Bruce sighed, sitting back. “When Barton and I were talking yesterday—before I knew Coulson was alive—I remember thinking that it was lucky for HYDRA that Loki had killed him, because if he’d still been around they wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that. Phil Coulson is probably the biggest threat to HYDRA there is.”

            “Captain America is a pretty big threat,” Trip began.

            “Captain America is busy with his own private mission right now,” Stark interrupted. “Once he finds Barnes, yeah, HYDRA better watch out, because he is _pissed._ ”

            “And rightfully so,” Fitz interjected.

            “I’m not denying that. Point is, right now he’s a little too preoccupied to worry about HYDRA—or worry them.”

            “And I think Coulson’s been a concern to HYDRA for years,” Bruce said. “Even before they came out of hiding—maybe even before they thought of doing it. Barton counted yesterday. He’s been a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for twenty years, counting these last two years when he’s been more or less inactive. In that time, he’s been captured _ten_ times. I’ll grant you the last time—Loki had nothing to do with HYDRA—”

            “As far as we know,” Stark muttered.

            “—but the other nine times…like he said, he never had an extraction plan. Coulson got him out every time. _Personally._ ” Bruce let that sink in for a minute.

            Skye and Fitz looked at each other. Both of them looked frightened and—Bruce was startled to note—guilty. May spoke firmly before either of them could. “Coulson isn’t the sort of guy to leave a man behind—especially not someone he cares about. Don’t either of you start blaming yourselves.”

            “That goes for you, too, Agent May,” Stark said. “Quit blaming yourself for what happened. You can’t be everywhere. Anyway, you were quick enough to prevent worse damage than was already done. At least they weren’t seriously hurt.”

            Simmons played with a strand of her hair. “What if they come back tonight?”

            “They won’t,” Bruce said quietly. “They might have friends, but…I doubt they’ll be coming by any time soon either.”

            “How can you be so sure?” Skye asked.

            “I’m…about ninety-nine percent sure they’re all dead.”

            “The one who shot at you certainly is,” May said dryly. “Unless he’s part fish.”

            Simmons turned white. “You—he _shot_ at you? Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

            “I’m fine,” Bruce assured her, remembering the faint _clinks_ he’d barely heard over the rain on the patio. “The—I guess the bullets didn’t go _too_ deep. When I changed back, they dropped out onto the ground.” He raised his eyebrows at Fitz. “Looks like you were right about the other guy.”

            Fitz blushed, but nodded. Stark looked at Bruce. “What did you do to him?”

            Bruce debated arguing that the other guy had done it, then decided against it. “Grabbed him and…kind of threw him out to sea. I knocked another one into the surf, too, but not as far out. The rest I sort of left on the beach.” He hesitated, then added, “Made sure they couldn’t follow.”

            May’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “Good.”

            “Not gonna deny that I’ll sleep a little better knowing that,” Stark admitted.

            “Me, too,” Simmons said softly. Skye nodded fervently.

            Bruce was a little uncomfortable, but said nothing. He knew that the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been badly shaken—and, truthfully, so had he. _Was_ it such a bad thing that there were twelve HYDRA agents who couldn’t cause any more trouble? And like he’d said, they couldn’t follow him back to Stark’s house.

            Trip glanced up at the ceiling. “I have a feeling that when Coulson comes back down, we’re gonna be leaving,” he said quietly.

            “No way,” Stark said instantly. “Not in _that_ storm. It might give you a little protection against anyone who’s watching out for you—key word is _might_ —but it’ll also hide people who are coming to attack you. I never could convince anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. that there are better colors for camouflage than black. You need rest. And I don’t feel safe letting you go, and I’m the son of the founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. and also a spoiled rich boy who’s used to getting his own way, so you guys are staying at _least_ one more night, whether Phil likes it or not.”

            May almost smiled at that. “To be honest, that makes me feel a lot better. We do need to get back to work…but not tonight. I don’t think any of us are really ready for that.” She tilted her head. “And yes, I’m including myself in that.”

            “I know I’m not,” Skye muttered, lacing her fingers tightly over her stomach.

            “Well, you guys are welcome to stay—well, I was gonna say ‘as long as you like,’ which is technically true, since I know Phil’s gonna want to be on his way as soon as possible—especially now—but at least for the next three days,” Stark said.

            Bruce recalled Stark’s conversation with Pepper. “What happens in four days?”

            Stark took a deep breath. “The renovations on Avengers Tower—except for the final tweaks to the security system, which I’m gonna put in myself—are finally complete. It’s ready for us to move into. Has been for a couple of days, but we didn’t think Fitz could be moved. Now that you’ve vetted him for getting out of bed…” He spread out his hands, palms up.

            “The move is in four days,” Bruce completed.

            “Exactly.” Stark smiled. “There’s room for all of you, but I know Phil’s never gonna go for that.”

            “A gigantic tower in the middle of New York is not exactly an inconspicuous place to rebuild a secret organization,” May said with another of those almost-smiles.

            “Which is kind of what I figured, but I had to offer.”

            May turned to Fitz. “What are you going to do?”

            Fitz started. “M-me?”

            “Theoretically, you’ve been staying here because you couldn’t get out of bed. Now that you can, you have a choice. Are you going to come with us, or stay with Stark and the others?”

            Fitz looked like he’d been run over by a truck. “I—uh—” he stammered. “I—have a choice?”

            “Fitz, of _course_ you do,” Simmons said, although she looked stricken, too. “Nobody’s going to _force_ you to come if you don’t—if you don’t want to.”

            “It’s not that I don’t want to, Jemma,” Fitz said quickly, reaching for her hand, probably unconsciously. “It’s just—with my arm, I—I don’t know how much good I would actually be. And without…I mean, lab tables are designed for people who are standing up and walking about. I wouldn’t be able to reach…”

            “Like Simmons said, nobody’s going to force you to come,” May said quietly. “And, Fitz, none of us will think any less of you if you decide to stay.”

            “I could use an assistant,” Stark said helpfully. “With the robot and such. And it’s not like I’ve never had a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent baby-sitting me before. Phil did it, actually. Few years back—maybe four years?”

            It took Bruce a second to realize the question was directed at him. “How the hell should I know, Stark? Four years ago I was in a remote village in Malaysia trying to get my emotions under control.”

            Stark grinned, acknowledging the hit. “Yeah, I think it was about four years. It was when Thor first showed up—or, well, right before that. I was dying, and…it’s a long story. Anyway, Phil was assigned to stay here and basically keep me under house arrest. He got pulled to New Mexico, but by that point I was pretty much back on track. So if you wanna stick around, I can phrase it like that when I tell Phil.”

            Fitz smiled. “Thanks, but…” He took a deep breath. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that honesty is always preferable to something that makes you look good, at least with Director Coulson. I’ll tell him the truth.”

            This time, May’s smile was genuine. “He’ll definitely appreciate that.”

            “So you _are_ staying, then,” Skye said.

            Fitz blushed, but nodded. “If that’s all right with you,” he said, looking at Stark.

            Stark nodded. “It’s all right with me.”

            “Welcome to Stark’s Strays,” Bruce said dryly.

            Fitz smiled, even as his blush deepened, and that was the end of that particular conversation.

* * *

            As Skye had predicted, Coulson and Barton didn’t reappear that evening. While May took a turn making dinner, Bruce quietly headed up to the third floor to check on them. He tapped lightly on Barton’s door, then, not receiving an answer, pushed the door open as silently as possible.

            He wasn’t at all surprised to see the two of them curled up on Barton’s bed, tangled up in one another like a pair of cables casually thrown into a box, their faces buried in each other’s shoulders. Both were sound asleep. Carefully, Bruce entered the room and pulled the blanket and comforter up over them before leaving the room and shutting the door securely.

            “Everything all right?” Stark asked, looking up from where he was setting the table as Bruce entered the kitchen.

            “Sleeping,” Bruce reported. “Soundly.”

            “Good. They probably need it.” Stark waved Bruce to a seat.

            As they ate—Agent May had produced a surprisingly tasty breakfast amoeba—Bruce happened to notice Simmons. She seemed just fine, participating in the conversation and eating her food, but there was something in her eyes that caught his attention. At first he thought it might have been worry over Coulson, or even fear for herself. By the end of the meal, however, he had determined exactly what it was.

            “How ‘bout I do the dishes?” Bruce offered when everyone was done. “I don’t cook, my mom used to say I’d burn a salad, but I can wash dishes with the best of ‘em.”

            “Sure, if you really want to,” Stark said, smirking.

            Bruce stood and began gathering the plates. “Simmons, could you give me a hand here?”

            Simmons started picking up the silverware as the others left the room. Bruce said nothing until he’d filled one compartment of the sink with sudsy water. “I’ll wash, you wipe,” he offered.

            “Yeah, okay,” Simmons said softly.

            They worked in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Bruce said, “He loves you, you know.”

            Simmons almost dropped the plate she was drying. “Wh-what?” she stammered, rubbing with renewed fury.

            “Fitz loves you,” Bruce said, setting another dish into the rinse water. “He’s not staying because he doesn’t care about you, or because he doesn’t want to be with you. Frankly, I think he’d be a hell of a lot happier if _you_ stayed, too.”

            “I—I can’t—”

            “I know. And he doesn’t want to. But…I’m no psychologist, but I think he doesn’t think it’s fair to go back with you guys until he’s back to one hundred percent—until he’s the Fitz you remember.” Bruce took a deep breath. “So I don’t think he’ll be going back until he realizes that he’ll never _be_ that person again.”

            “Of course he will,” Simmons said fiercely. “It’ll take time, but—”

            “Simmons,” Bruce said quietly. “Everything that happens to you changes you, at least a little bit. And this is a big _something._ He was betrayed by someone he cared about, someone he thought cared about _him._ He was hurt, badly, and he was nearly killed. He’ll never be the same. Neither will you. There’s nothing wrong with that…but it’s something both of you are going to have to accept.”

            “It’s just…” Tears flooded Simmons’ eyes. She set down the now-dry dish. “I love him, Dr. Banner. He’s been my best friend for years, and…I never realized how I really felt until he told me how _he_ felt, and…and when he told me, we were at the bottom of the ocean getting ready to escape the pod. He told me because he—he honestly thought he was going to die, he’d rigged up a device to give me enough air to get at least some of the way to the surface but there wasn’t enough for him and…he said I was the better swimmer anyway. He told me because he said it didn’t feel right to let me go without telling me. But…once he’d said that, I _couldn’t_ leave him behind…I couldn’t have anyway, but I especially couldn’t after that.  These past two weeks…it’s been so hard to leave him. I reconciled myself to it because he couldn’t be moved. But now…now I have to admit that he’s _choosing_ not to come back with us, and…I don’t know if I can handle that.”

            She was crying openly. Bruce knew he should do something—like hug her—but he felt awkward at the very idea. He wasn’t really a hugger. And his hands were too wet to pat her shoulder. “Like I said, he’s not staying because he doesn’t want to go with you. He does. He obviously worships the ground you walk on. And it’s equally obvious that he’s got a lot of respect for Coulson. But it’s _his_ decision. You need to respect that. I mean, obviously you can stay, too.”

            “I can’t, though,” Simmons said desperately. “There’s so much work to be done…and I can’t leave Coulson. He’s done so much for us. And this team…it’s my family. We’ve all been hurt enough. Ward’s betrayal…and May left us for a little while, she’d been—it’s a long story…and Skye was _shot,_ she nearly died, we had to…” A fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t want to leave Fitz, but the work’s got to come first. Coulson trusted me, that’s why he picked me for the team. I can’t let him down now.”

            Bruce wondered if Coulson knew just how much loyalty he inspired in these kids. “You’re not letting Fitz down if you leave him with us for a while. It’s not like you’ll never be back. You really think Coulson’s going to leave Barton for long? Especially _now?_ Come to think of it, when you guys do leave, maybe you should talk to him,” he added, struck by sudden inspiration. “He must understand what it’s like to have to leave the person you love while you work on something else…after all, they’ve been together for eighteen years. And Barton spent two of them believing Coulson was dead. At least you know Fitz is alive and safe.”

            “There is that.” Simmons wiped her eyes on her dishrag. “Mum would say I’m borrowing trouble. I just…I admit I feel a bit like he’s abandoning me.”

            “He’s not. Any more than you’re abandoning him. You guys will keep in touch. And hey, maybe he’ll be walking by the time you get back.” Bruce smiled. “Stark and Barton and I can look after him, work with him, and you can devote yourself to rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. and hunting HYDRA. And we promise to give him back in as near-mint condition as possible.”

            Simmons actually smiled in reply. “I’ll hold you to that, Dr. Banner.”

            They finished up the dishes quickly. Simmons started to head out of the kitchen, then paused, turned back, and hugged Bruce. “Thank you,” she whispered.

            Bruce was startled, but managed to hug her awkwardly in return. “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

            Simmons let him go, smiled, and hurried into the living room, where the others were. Bruce stayed still for a moment, then joined them.

* * *

            Coulson and his team ended up staying two more nights, helping the others to pack things up. The excuse was that it was still raining, rather heavily—which was true—but Bruce knew that both Coulson and Simmons were reluctant to leave.

            Finally, the day before Stark had promised Pepper they would move back east, the rain abated. It was still drizzly, but it was a light drizzle. Most importantly, there had been no sign of HYDRA, or of anyone else who might have meant mischief.

            “We should probably leave this morning,” Coulson said quietly as everyone nursed the first cup of coffee of the day (or, in Fitz’s case, a glass of orange juice).

            “Why not wait until after lunch?” Stark suggested.

            “Because we always wait until after lunch. If anyone’s been monitoring us, they’ll be expecting us to conform to our usual patterns. The earlier we leave, the less likely it’ll be that we get caught.”

            “Makes sense,” Barton said reluctantly. “I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

            Coulson nodded. “Guys, get your stuff once you’re done eating.”

            “Are you driving back to your secret base?” Stark asked.

            “What makes you think it’s a secret base?” Coulson countered.

            Stark snorted. “’Cause if it wasn’t, you’d have told me where it was by now.”

            “Good point,” Coulson admitted. He almost smiled, just a little bit. “And…no. Flying. We parked the Bus at the airport.”

            “Subtle,” Stark said. “Like a brick through a window. Anyway, take B.E.C.K.A. with you, then just leave her. I’ll recall her later.”

            “You’re taking her with you?”

            “We’re taking her, full stop. I don’t feel comfortable flying in a splashy private jet with STARK printed on the side of it. So we’re driving.”

            “To New York?” May raised an eyebrow.

            Stark grinned. “Sure. It’ll take about two days if we drive straight through. Which, B.E.C.K.A. gets good gas mileage, so we won’t have to stop, except to eat. And she can drive herself, so we can get some sleep.”

            “And you were gonna tell us this…when, exactly?” Bruce asked, smirking. To his surprise, he found he didn’t mind the prospect so much—and neither did the other guy. Fitz had been right. If it didn’t bother him, or put him in danger, it didn’t bother the other guy.

            Stark shrugged. “When I got around to it.”

            “Well, drive carefully,” Coulson said. His eyes flashed with worry. “Call me when you get there.”

            “Yes, _Dad._ ”

            It was almost normal, and Bruce kind of admitted he was reveling in it. Normalcy went out the window a minute later, however, as May downed the rest of her coffee and, without a word, went upstairs to get her bag. One by one, the others followed.

            Bruce stayed on the periphery of the living room as the team said their goodbyes. Simmons bent down and kissed Fitz, which made him turn a nifty shade of pink. Stark hugged both Skye and Simmons before shaking hands with the others. Coulson and Barton simply held one another. For a minute, Bruce thought Barton would ask to go with them—and Coulson would agree—but neither of them said a word.

            To his surprise, Simmons came over and held out her hand, a little uncertainly. “Thank you again, Dr. Banner,” she said softly. “For everything.”

            Bruce shook the young woman’s hand. “It was a pleasure, Agent Simmons. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

            “I will. And…thank you again.” Simmons gave him a somewhat watery smile before walking over to join the group.

            At last, with obvious reluctance, Coulson gave Barton a gentle kiss on the lips and released him. “Take care, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

            Barton nodded, touching Coulson’s cheek lightly. “I love you, Phil.”

            “I love you, too, Clint.” Coulson swallowed hard, then stepped back and nodded to Stark and Bruce. “I’ll—I guess we’ll be seeing you.”

            “See you, Phil,” Stark said quietly.

            Bruce nodded, putting a hand on the back of Fitz’s wheelchair. Barton took a slow step backwards, joining the other three. The four of them stayed motionless as Coulson and his team headed into the garage. Two motors started up, and there was the unmistakable sound of cars driving away.

            After several long minutes, Fitz spoke in a slightly croaking voice. “They’re gone.”

            Stark touched his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, kid. They’re gone. And this time tomorrow, we will be, too.”

            Barton exhaled deeply. “At least they’re safe.”

            Bruce nodded absently, then turned to the three men. For the first time, he saw them for what they truly were—his friends.

            His _family._ Or part of it, anyway.

            “They’re safe,” he agreed quietly. “And so are we.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm already working on the next story in the sequence...and I have the next two after that planned, too. Story #7 will be Thor's story. Story #8 will be a little interlude involving good things happening to the team (for once). And Story #9 will be Bucky's story. I hope you'll stay with me!


End file.
